-an OD of Toughts-

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’...

Every now and then, a television show comes along that grabs you by the eyeballs and refuses to let go. Down Cemetery Road is that show. It’s smart, it’s moody, and it’s got enough twists to make a corkscrew dizzy. Based on Mick Herron’s novel, yes, the bloke behind Slow Horses, the show about alcoholic spies and terrible life choices, Down Cemetery Road swaps espionage for suburban secrets. There’s a house explosion, a missing girl, and more lies per minute than a politician in election season. Ruth Wilson plays Sarah Tucker, a woman whose curiosity is roughly the size of Jupiter. Emma Thompson, meanwhile, plays Zoë Boehm, a private investigator with the kind of haunted stare that suggests she’s seen things no one should ever Google. Together, they wander around Oxford digging up enough dirt to fill a quarry. And it’s brilliant. The writing is sharp, the acting flawless, and the whole thing hums with that slow, creeping dread the British do so well, the sort that makes you feel sli...

There are moments in life when you discover what you’re really made of. Some people lift cars off trapped children. Some stay calm in the face of danger. And others, like the dad in Force Majeure,  leg it faster than Lewis Hamilton when an avalanche heads for the lunch terrace. This Swedish film, directed by Ruben Östlund, begins like one of those glossy ski resort adverts, perfect family, perfect snow, perfect jawlines. You half expect a Volvo to glide past in slow motion. But then, boom, a wall of snow tumbles down the mountain, and in that split second, our hero Tomas reveals his true colours: he grabs his phone and sprints off, leaving his wife and kids behind. Not since the invention of the electric scooter has manhood looked so pathetic. Of course, the avalanche stops short. Nobody dies. The only thing buried is Tomas’s dignity. But that’s when the real disaster begins. His wife, Ebba, doesn’t let it go, oh no. She picks at the wound like a terrier with a sock, reminding him ...

If you’ve ever sat in traffic, fantasising about escaping modern life — the noise, the bills, the idiots on scooters — Eden is here to remind you exactly why that’s a stupid idea. Ron Howard’s latest film, Eden , drops us on a sun-bleached island in the Galápagos, where a collection of 1920s Europeans decide civilisation is overrated. Their grand plan? Build a paradise free of rules, taxes, and presumably deodorant. What they actually build is a human zoo — complete with hunger, jealousy, and a slow descent into madness. It’s Love Island , but with more sweat, fewer bikinis, and a shocking amount of teeth problems. A CAST STRANDED IN STYLE To be fair, the cast is exceptional. Jude Law scowls his way through the jungle like a man who’s just discovered his espresso machine doesn’t work on solar power. Ana de Armas, playing a seductive and unhinged baroness, slinks through the chaos with the confidence of someone who knows she’s the only one wearing silk. Sydney Sweeney, meanwhile, g...

In 2016, Japanese scientist Yoshinori Ohsumi won the Nobel Prize for uncovering what really happens when you fast — a natural process called autophagy, meaning “self-eating.” When you stop eating for a while, your body doesn’t shut down. It switches on. Your cells begin to clean house — breaking down damaged parts, recycling them into energy, and repairing themselves from the inside out. It’s your body’s built-in self-repair system, activated not by medicine, but by the simple act of fasting. Ohsumi’s discovery revealed that fasting does far more than burn fat. It boosts cellular renewal, slows ageing, supports brain health, and helps protect against diseases such as Parkinson’s, diabetes, and even cancer. What ancient cultures practised for centuries now has scientific proof. Fasting isn’t deprivation — it’s regeneration. It’s your body’s way of saying, “I’ve got this. Let me fix what’s broken.” So the next time you fast, remember — you’re not punishing your body. You’re giving it tim...

   There I was, scrolling through Prime Video, expecting something light and easy for the evening. Maybe a cheerful rom-com, a bit of nonsense, something with a talking dog. Instead, I ended up watching The Truth About the Harry Quebert Affair, which is basically ten hours of small-town America losing its collective mind in glorious high definition. It begins innocently enough. A quiet town by the sea. Birds chirping. Everyone pretending to be normal. Then, within minutes, someone digs up the body of a teenage girl in the garden of a famous writer, and suddenly the whole place makes Broadchurch look like The Teletubbies. Patrick Dempsey, who we last saw charming nurses and melting hearts in Grey’s Anatomy, now plays Harry Quebert, a tortured author who wrote one great novel and has spent the rest of his life staring moodily at the ocean, probably waiting for inspiration or a decent sandwich. He’s accused of murdering a fifteen-year-old girl who was his so-called muse, which is...

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 br...

Opening the glovebox, something which is a rarity, I found the CD Luck and Strange by David Gilmour. And it was a bloody godsend to revisit this album. Right. Strap in, because we’re talking about David Gilmour — the man who can make a single note sound more emotional than your entire love life, your car payments, and that time your dog looked at you funny — all at once. Let’s be honest. Most rock legends of his generation have either retired gracefully into boring lives, gone completely mad, or started collaborating with people who make reality TV look like Shakespeare. But Gilmour? No. He’s done what only he can do. Sat quietly for nine years, said absolutely nothing, and then sauntered back with an album so effortlessly brilliant it makes every modern pop star look like they’re smashing toy instruments together in a sandbox. From the very first track, you know it’s him. That honey-dripped guitar tone slides in like a warm knife through nostalgia. It’s not a guitar. It’s a living,...

Right. So Amazon Prime has gone and made another one of those animated anthology things. Except this time they’ve raided the video game cupboard like a teenager at 3am looking for leftover pizza and regret. It’s called Secret Level . And before you ask, no, it’s not about finding hidden bits in Super Mario . Although frankly, that would have been less mental than what they’ve actually done. Because what we’ve got here is Tim Miller, the madman behind Love, Death & Robots , deciding that what the world really needs is Pac-Man . But serious. And dark. And possibly eating people’s souls instead of dots. Each episode is like opening a loot box of gaming nostalgia that’s been left in Chernobyl. One minute you’re watching Warhammer 40,000 Space Marines shouting about heresy and firing guns the size of Volvos, and the next you’re watching Mega Man having a midlife crisis. It’s like scrolling through the fever dreams of a GameStop employee who’s had too much Red Bull. Now, the anima...

In 1981, a young Japanese engineer named Kikuo Ibe did something most of us dread: he dropped his father’s watch. And not just a little slip-of-the-hand moment—this was a catastrophic, floor-meets-watch disaster. The glass shattered, the hands stopped, and somewhere in that instant, a piece of Ibe’s heart broke too. Most people would have shrugged, bought a new watch, and moved on. Not Ibe. A few days later, while watching construction workers hammering tires, he noticed something odd: none of them wore watches. The reason was painfully simple—ordinary watches couldn’t survive real life. Gravel, hammers, gravity… they were death to any timepiece. And that’s when he made a vow: he would create a watch that could withstand everything. Gravity? Bring it. Water? Sure. Time itself? Absolutely. At Casio, he began what could only be described as a quiet revolution. For two years, Ibe built, smashed, and hurled more than 200 prototypes from rooftops, testing which could endure the chaos of ...

If you’ve ever wondered what happens when a leather-clad heavy-metal drummer trades her Kawasaki for a government car and a desk in Tokyo — well, wonder no more. Because Japan, that meticulously organised island where trains arrive on time and people apologise to ticket machines, has just appointed its first female Prime Minister: Sanae Takaichi . And she’s not your standard-issue politician. Not one of those grey, soulless suits who sound like they were programmed by Microsoft. No — she’s got thunder in her veins, oil under her fingernails, and probably still hums X Japan when she’s reading defence briefings. The Headbanging Beginnings Let’s start from the top — or rather, the garage. Takaichi was born in Nara , western Japan — a quiet, historical town known for its deer, temples, and general lack of roaring engines. But young Sanae wasn’t one to blend into the Zen landscape. While other girls were learning calligraphy, she was beating the living daylights out of a drum kit in ...

California, land of palm trees, movie stars, and people who put kale in everything, has found itself in a very sticky situation. The wine industry, once the pride of the state and the liquid symbol of American sophistication, is now in complete meltdown. Napa and Sonoma, those golden lands where wine used to flow like confidence at a Silicon Valley party, are drowning in their own product. The harvest this year is apparently marvellous. The grapes are plump, juicy, and bursting with potential. It should be a celebration. Instead, the wine world is in such deep trouble that even the Wall Street Journal said it is the worst crisis since the days when people had to drink gin made in bathtubs. The problem is simple. They have too much wine and not enough people willing to drink it. Which, in America, is like saying there are too many burgers and not enough mouths. Too Much of a Good Thing For decades, California was the king of American wine. Eight out of ten bottles came from there....

If you have ever wondered what Victorian London would look like if faeries and mythical creatures were real and constantly in trouble you need to step into the world of Carnival Row. It is a show that is equal parts murder mystery, political intrigue, and forbidden romance and it somehow manages to pull it all off with style. The streets of the city are grimy, fog-laden, and beautifully detailed so much so that you can almost feel the damp chill on your face as the drama unfolds. At the centre of it all are Rycroft “Philo” Philostrate, a brooding detective with a troubled past, and Vignette Stonemoss, a faerie whose life has been torn apart by human cruelty. Together they navigate a world where prejudice, politics, and passion collide. What makes Carnival Row truly addictive is its stunning visual storytelling. The costumes, the architecture, the subtle details of faerie wings and mystical creatures are all done with meticulous care. Yet, for all its beauty, the series does not shy ...

  “I Like Me: The John Candy Story” isn’t just another syrupy Hollywood documentary made to milk nostalgia. This one actually has a heartbeat. It’s about a man who wasn’t just funny; he was pure warmth in human form, the sort of bloke you’d want to share a pint and a plate of chips with while talking absolute nonsense about life. From the start, you realise this isn’t a highlight reel of his best gags. It’s an emotional rollercoaster that lets you see Candy as he truly was — generous, insecure, and genuinely good. The clips of him on set, cracking jokes between takes, are gold. Then suddenly, the laughter fades and you’re hit with the toll of fame, the health issues, the pressure to keep smiling when his own life was quietly breaking apart. What makes this documentary brilliant is that it doesn’t wallow in tragedy. It celebrates him. It shows why everyone loved John Candy — not because he was perfect, but because he made imperfection look beautiful. The directors nailed it. The ...

 Right then — The Girlfriend (2025). A psychological thriller so British it practically smells of Waitrose champagne and suppressed emotions. We begin with Laura, played by Robin Wright — a woman who’s got it all: money, a career, a lovely house that looks like it was decorated by someone with a Pinterest addiction, and a son who appears to be made entirely of naivety and bad decisions. Enter Cherry, the new girlfriend — younger, charming, mysterious, and with that unmistakable air of “she’s definitely up to something.” What follows is a battle of wits between two women who’d both rather die than admit they might be wrong. Laura starts sniffing around like a bloodhound with a PhD in paranoia, while Cherry plays innocent so convincingly you almost want to believe her. Almost. Now, the setup’s great — Gone Girl on a yacht, You without the voiceover, EastEnders with better lighting. And the acting? Spot on. Robin Wright could make buttering toast look sinister, and Olivia Cooke ’...

  Ah yes, The Woman in Cabin 10 . A thriller that promises Hitchcock on the high seas and instead delivers a mildly confusing hangover on a ferry to nowhere . Let’s start with the premise: a travel journalist, Lo Blacklock, boards a luxury cruise for a puff-piece assignment. She’s meant to sip champagne, write about rich people, and enjoy the view. Instead, she hears a splash in the night, thinks she’s witnessed a murder, and — surprise! — nobody believes her. Imagine Rear Window , but instead of Jimmy Stewart and binoculars, it’s a drunk woman waving her iPhone at the North Sea. Now, the first half actually pulls you in. There’s atmosphere, paranoia, and just enough claustrophobia to make you check the air vents. The setting — a posh, high-tech yacht with only a handful of passengers — should be perfect for tension. But then, things start to wobble. Not in a “storm at sea” sort of way. More in a “the plot’s sprung a leak and nobody brought duct tape” sort of way. Lo, our heroi...

  A Manifesto Against Automotive Nonsense Because they're ruddy EXPENSIVE, you blithering idiot! Do you know why? Because modern cars have become a technological equivalent of a Swiss Army knife that also makes tea, sings lullabies, and can predict next week's lottery numbers! Utter. Bloody. Nonsense! The Rise of the Useless Feature Take the window controls. Not content with being simple up/down buttons, they've evolved into something so complicated that NASA uses the same system to launch rockets! Press briefly → window goes down automatically like some sort of robotic butler. Hold longer → window descends completely like it's trying to escape. Press down and pull up → window lowers just a smidgen, as if you're playing some bizarre game of "how low can you go?" Pull up and press down → window rises slightly, like it's doing a little window dance just for you! In the old days, you pressed a button, the window went down, you let go, it stopped. SIMPLE! ...