This Week's Weekly Entertainment Round Up. Complete with the appropriate level of bafflement, cultural despair, and references to things that should not exist but somehow do.

Ladies and gentlemen, strap yourselves in, because the entertainment world has had a week so chaotic it makes Love Island look like a postgraduate seminar on Stoic philosophy. I don’t know what’s in the water, but I suspect it’s either microplastics or the tears of publicists.

Let’s begin with the biggest news in the galaxy  literally!  because lost Doctor Who episodes have been found. Yes. FOUND. As in: someone opened a dusty BBC cupboard labelled “Misc. Stuff We’ll Definitely Lose Again” and discovered William Hartnell battling Daleks in a storyline so ambitious it attempted to conquer Earth, the solar system, and the galaxy. This is impressive, because most modern villains struggle to conquer even a mid‑sized Waitrose.

These episodes were only ever shown in the UK, presumably because the rest of the world wasn’t ready for the sight of a man in a cardigan shouting at pepper pots. But now they’re back, restored, and ready to remind us that once upon a time, science fiction was made with cardboard, hope, and a budget of £11.50.

Meanwhile, in the world of celebrity baby names  a realm where logic goes to die  Jack Osbourne and his wife Agee have named their daughter “Ozzy.” This is, apparently, a touching tribute to her late rock‑legend grandad. It is also a bold move, because naming a baby after Ozzy Osbourne means accepting that at some point she may attempt to bite the head off a stuffed animal at nursery. But honestly, in the Osbourne family, that probably counts as a christening.

Next up: Morrissey, the only man who can cancel a concert because a cloud looked at him funny, has cancelled a concert in Spain because he “didn’t get enough sleep.” According to the singer, he endured the “indescribable hell” of a noisy hotel room in Valencia. Now, I don’t want to diminish his suffering, but most people’s “indescribable hell” involves things like tax returns or trying to assemble IKEA furniture without crying. Morrissey’s involves a slightly loud minibar.

To be fair, he has become something of an expert in calling off gigs. At this point, he should just tour under the name “Morrissey (Subject to Availability)”.

In cinematic news, the Razzies have spoken, and last year’s War of the Worlds — the one starring Ice Cube as a man who must save humanity from an alien invasion without leaving his desk  has swept the board. This is not surprising. Any film where the hero defeats extraterrestrial forces while presumably also filling out HR forms is destined for greatness of the wrong kind.

I haven’t seen it, but I imagine the climactic scene involves Ice Cube shouting, “THEY’RE BREACHING THE ATMOSPHERE  AND ALSO, I’M NOT DOING THE TEAM‑BUILDING AWAY DAY.”

Elsewhere, Claudia Winkleman’s new chat show has divided critics, which is critic‑speak for “some people liked it and some people would rather be trapped in Morrissey’s hotel room.” Personally, I think Claudia could host a show about drying paint and still make it feel like a national event, but apparently not everyone agrees.

And then, of course, the Oscars happened. I won’t recap the whole ceremony, because that would require several weeks and a support group, but suffice it to say: people cried, people thanked their agents, and someone wore something that looked like it was designed by a committee of sleep‑deprived flamingos.

Finally, in news that proves the universe is just messing with us now, a Pink Floyd guitar used by Dave Gilmore has sold for $14.6 million. That is a lot of money. For that price, I would expect the guitar to not only play itself but also mow the lawn, file my taxes, and explain the plot of Tenet.

But no  it is simply a guitar. A very nice guitar, yes, but still fundamentally a wooden object that goes “twang.” Somewhere out there, a billionaire is strumming it right now, producing the exact same sound your cousin Gary makes after two pints and a misguided sense of confidence.

And that, dear reader, is your week in entertainment. Daleks, babies named after rock gods, sleepless Morrisseys, desk‑based alien invasions, divided critics, golden statues, and a guitar worth more than the GDP of several small islands.

Frankly, I need a lie‑down.