The Weekly Entertainment Round-Up Of The Last Seven Days In The world Of Entertainment. This week’s entertainment news arrived like a flamingo on a skateboard: colourful, chaotic, and clearly one wobble away from disaster.

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What a week. Honestly, if you tried to explain Sam Fender and Olivia Dean to an alien—“Yes, they’re British, yes, they sing, yes, they’ve broken a chart record previously held by Wet Wet Wet, which is a real band name and not a plumbing emergency”—the alien would immediately get back in its spaceship and leave. 

Sixteen weeks at number one. Sixteen. That’s not a chart run, that’s a tenancy agreement. At this point Rein Me In has been at the top longer than most houseplants survive in my kitchen. It has outlasted fads, trends, and at least three of my attempts to get into yoga.And it’s not just any record they’ve broken they’ve surpassed Wet Wet Wet’s Love Is All Around, a song that clung to the charts in 1994 with the tenacity of a toddler refusing to leave a soft‑play centre. They’ve also equalled Bryan Adams’ Everything I Do (I Do It For You), which stayed at number one for so long that historians still debate whether it was a song or a minor form of government.

Meanwhile, Disney has released its live‑action Moana, and critics have responded with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for discovering a spider in your shoe. “Dismal,” they said. “Flat,” they said. “Why does this exist,” they said, presumably while lying face‑down on the carpet. Disney keeps remaking animated classics as live‑action films, and every time it feels like watching someone photocopy a painting. Yes, technically it’s the same picture, but now it’s greyer and slightly crooked.

In more dignified news, Patricia Greene—Jill Archer herself—has died at 95 after nearly seventy years on The Archers. Seventy years. That’s not a career; that’s a geological era. She was the lemon‑drizzle matriarch of Ambridge, the calm voice in a world where someone is always losing a sheep or emotionally imploding in a barn. If national treasures were kept in glass cases, hers would have needed reinforced steel and a polite sign saying “Please do not tap the Jill.”

And then, heartbreakingly, Sam Neill ,yes, Jurassic Park Sam Neill, has died at 78. The man survived dinosaurs, tropical storms, and Jeff Goldblum’s shirtless chaos, but time gets us all. He was the cinematic equivalent of a warm jumper: comforting, dependable, and slightly rumpled in a way that made you trust him immediately. If he told me to run from a velociraptor, I wouldn’t ask questions. I’d just sprint.

Elsewhere, Amber Davies of Legally Blonde fame had someone kicked out of her show for filming from the front row. I support this. If you’re in the front row of a musical, your job is to sit there, clap politely, and avoid becoming part of the scenery. Filming the performance is like attending a wedding and loudly asking where the nearest Greggs is. Davies posted about it on Instagram, because of course she did Instagram is where modern civilisation goes to announce grievances, brunch, and the occasional engagement.

And finally, Christopher Nolan who never met a camera he didn’t want to strap to a helicopter has released The Odyssey. Critics are losing their minds. “Film of the year,” said The Telegraph. “Will change cinema forever,” said Metro. Whenever critics say things like this, I assume the film contains at least one scene where time folds in on itself and a man shouts “THEME!” while running through a corridor. Nolan adapting Homer feels inevitable: of course the man who turned physics into a plot device would eventually tackle ancient Greeks shouting at gods.

So that’s the week: chart‑dominating duets, dismal Disney, beloved legends lost, pink‑clad justice, and Nolan bending reality again.If next week is any calmer, I’ll be suspicious.

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