By Roy Mathur, on 2025-04-15, at 02:37:49 to 03:27:07 BST, for Captain Roy's Rusty Rocket Radio Show
A never-ending list of jobs, stress, a trip to London, New New Who... We'll talk coping strategies at the end.
Oh yes, and concerning all future copyright claims (listen to pod 574 regarding pod 90), please forward all future concerns to my legal representatives at Knobwicke, Belle and Ende Danke Chambers.
2025 Shudder horror film, written and directed by Hell House LLC budget found footage series director Stephen Cognetti.
Maria, Chuck and his sister Isabelle, who's just lost her mother in a road accident, move to a small country town haunted by the vicious and hideous ghost of Helen. A vengeful mother whose daughter was bullied, she is said to live at 825 Forest Road, a place that no longer exists on any map because the borders were redrawn after she murdered the council members.
The effects are overdone and not scary, the creepy dummy is a needless complication, and I only really liked the wife character. On the plus side, the Velma inside me enjoys the sort of weird mystery that involves trips to the library, I liked the covert support group, and I really love the idea of a place that doesn't seem to exist, which was what drew me to the film in the first place.
This isn't any type of review, because I said I wouldn't, but a progress report of my recomsumption of The X-Files, specifically the mytharc episodes. I'm storming through the rewatch. Mulder's sister, father and mother, Scully's sister, sinister trains, Krycek, the black oil, the alien bounty hunter, clone alien Jesus, and cult guest stars like Roy Thinnes (The Invaders, Journey to the Far Side of the Sun), etc.; it's intense and I love the conspiracy.
I'm ditching the Doggett and Reyes episodes. Give them their due, they stepped in when Duchovny became difficult. But no matter what the internet says, The X-Files without Mulder and Scully are The Why Files.
Marshall lives thanks to the mushroom, he's back with Frances, and I'm looking forward to the next season.
Ncuti Gatwa returns as the fifteenth Doctor in his second season (season 2 or 15 or a million and story 312 overall).
Nurse with bad boyfriend, who literally gifted her a star (with one of those novelty certificates), is kidnapped by robots from a planet around that star to be their queen... after a horrid robotic conversion. Luckily, she finds the Doctor aiding an uprising of humanoids.
Ncuti in a bad frock, childish giant toy robots uneasily mixed with body horror of Cybermen-type conversion and sudden disintegration via Dalek-like rays, in an average tale of revolution against robot overlords and, to RTD's credit, coercive control. An Asian nurse as a companion is very UK-centric as many Mauritians of the generation between me and my parents came to Essex to work in the NHS. New companion, Nurse Belinda Chandra (Varada Sethu), however, seems to share too similar a backstory to Clara the Impossible Girl. Under the silliness (I've seen sillier in classic) lies a complex and topical script, but I wasn't wonderstruck.
Even more rumours abound about Doctor Who going dormant for a number of years after this new season ends, and no Christmas Special either, because of the disappointing results post-Disney+ deal.
As I said before, I can't be bothered to talk about it in detail, but I will reiterate that I thought the Disney+ deal was idiotic and greedy. The bigger budgets only seem to have resulted in some stories lacking substance.
Instead of a lengthy pause, which at my age probably means this season will be the last New Who I will see, why can't they slim down the budget and go back to what they were doing before? I don't need bwaam-level spectaculars, just give me old-fashioned sci-fi horror again. Also, while David Tennant is a great Doctor, I want Ncuti in the driving seat for his full tenure, so don't chicken out and bring Tennant back to boost ratings. Just give Ncuti better material to work with.
It's Bollywood Month at castle Royenstein as Mum and Dad enjoy a playlist of classic films I made for them, due to a temporary trial Amazon Prime account foisted upon me by Bezos.
On Thursday we drove up to Ashton-upon-Lyne, just outside Manchester, to pick up an old Raleigh Twenty Stowaway I'd won with no other bidders on eBay. The drive was an endless exhausting loop. The M1, the Peak District, and the M6 on the way back. The Peak District was rocky, beautiful, and dramatic, pretty stone houses everywhere, its hazardous high speed A roads wound through a spectacular landscape marred by terrible fly-tipping and unappetisingly festooned in British Flags and for-sale signs. The quicker M6 on the way home was a truly terrible road that tried to murder our car's suspension. I'm still tired now.
On the way back, Mum and I talked about how the sadly neglected bike had been born in Nottingham, presumably spent sad decades Up North, before we picked it up, drove it back down past it's birthplace in the Midlands, to its home with us.
The bike is certainly better than the rusted-to-perdition one I foolishly gave up on some years ago. I say foolish because, while they are not rare in the UK, they are sought after and quite expensive and uncommon in other parts of the world. The frames and main parts are well-made and sturdy, better than budget bikes today. If you have one, hang on to it, repair it and ride it or pass it on, but please don't restomod it, break it up for parts, or scalp its next owner on eBay. The cost of fixing it up will cost more than the bike itself, but for some old classics, it's worth it to keep them alive. After cleaning and lubicrating it and test riding my own acquisition, I discovered the entire bike needs rebuilding, but I don't currently have the space or tools. That is frustrating as I'm a rider more than a hobbyist mechanic.
My reasons for buying it are that it fits in the car, it's a step-through and upright that's easy on my ailing joints, unlike Sir Clanky (my KHS single-speed red beach cruiser) it has gears and proper brakes, and it reminds me of my beloved 70s Raleigh Chipper (RIP).
This last Saturday, I did my usual monthly trip to London. It was great to be back after I missed the last due to an ill-timed migraine. Even this time wasn't a great start, with a hip twinge that started the moment I walked out the door and just got worse as the day went on.
I assumed I'd do some geek window shopping, but when I got there, I just went into every open music shop in Denmark Street. It might be Spring in other parts of the UK, but was definitely Summer T-shirt weather in London. Embankment Gardens was stuffed with Instagrammers.
Google Fit data: steps: 18,491 steps, heart points: 101, distance: 12.76 km. My few months old Skechers are already falling apart inside.
Brtish understatement was made for weeks like these past ones. I had a little much to do, a bit too much to fret over, and few outlets to relieve that stress (I don't think a learner biker wibbling through rush hour is stress-free; I should have thought that through). Specifics: DIY home repairs (toilets and knobs ha, ha), arbour demolition, an extremely long drive, a stuck garage door in the middle of the night, biometric ID check to put home on the market (with some very personal data wafting off into the clould; haven't they heard of the zillion data breaches?), pondering my life choices, and moping about expectations and the future. In other words, the insurmountable universe in which we all live.
My solution is my usual unhealthy and thoroughly British one. (Insert overused old man anecdote here). The lot should be swept under the carpet, whereupon one should set upon said hapless metaphorical floor covering with a carpet beater (though a pneumatic hammer might be more apropos for flattening such recalcitrant lumps). Remember carpet beaters? One of my childhood chores was to beat a rugs on the washing line. I'd beat seven bells out of them, until I broke the elaborately curlicued Victorian-style beater.