This article is taken from the December-January 2026 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Get five issues for just £25.
Whilst penniless children’s authors persist in bleating about endless celebrities swooping down and stealing their livelihoods, hats off to Ms Knightley (now amongst said latter number) for so succinctly clarifying matters.
As fragrant Keira more diplomatically suggests, had these self-pitying scribes possessed anything resembling the killer instincts of their eye-on-the-prize conquerors, such necessary slaughter might have been avoided.
Initially alarmed to read last year that our very own Stephen Fry was “sticking his tongue out” at rotten old Blighty and turning into an Austrian, one’s been reassured by the great man’s commitment to the Viennese cause.
Having since bagged the knighthood, starred in British reality television and waddled about on the West End stage as Lady Bracknell, we can all agree Herr Fry is making his point admirably.
Contractually required to join all manner of telly has-beens at the grandly-billed “London Film Fair”, proceedings reached their nadir when belatedly discovering one’s autograph was available on the day for the princely sum of “£15” — half that being charged by ruddy Julian Glover sitting nearby.
Ensuring doddery Julian was within earshot at the time, I pointedly informed organisers that the very idea of “Mr Glover” having a career “worth twice that of mine” was embarrassing for all concerned.
Having presumed I’d be toasting festivities in the Côte d’Azur with the newly-acquired fiancée, grim interventions by Gallic offspring — officially “trop angoissé” at the thought of my presence inside the widow’s palatial abode — instead ensures modest celebrations back home in SW5.
After crassly mistaking sweet Monique’s sudden desire to invest in English regional theatre for shady manoeuvrings on this actor/producer’s part, the two middle-aged adversaries, along with duplicitous spouses, evidently count their latest sabotage as a significant triumph at my expense.
Naturally, they underestimate the seasoned player before them: having long-ago learnt the hard way when losing their mother to the ruthless charms of Judas Iscariot/Ian McShane during Jesus of Nazareth (Judas wasn’t a keeper), impending victory shall prove all the sweeter come 2026.
King-sized ambition
Forced to pay “substantial damages” to the academic he defamed in the soppy movie biopic The Lost King — about digging up Richard III if you luckily missed it — I gather Mr Coogan’s since set gloomy sights on the Merry Monarch himself.
Apparently, the Mancunian Roundhead decrees this version of events must drably focus on young Charles Stuart being forced to learn the error of his ways from salt-of-the-earth lowly types, whilst on the run from enemies — the kind of revisionism to be expected from the northern bore in question. If only we modern-day Cavaliers had the chance to sue him all over again …
Ever since the grim reaper’s attempted ambush last January, when this veteran trouper alarmingly tumbled off a Northants stage, fears the eulogy could one day fall into undesirable hands (the backstabbing nephew’s) have persisted.
Though traditionally wary of his activities, one couldn’t help being inspired by news sinister salesman Gyles Brandreth, of similar vintage to myself, modestly insists on pre-recording and performing an exhaustive tribute to himself for the day in question!
Playing to the gallery when publicly disparaging of His Majesty in the presence of Americans, Ms Blanchett, a Sussex-based Australian of note, shamelessly cosies up to the monarch for media purposes on her return.
Whilst theatrical predecessors displayed a more grounded grasp of Commonwealth matters, such dreary double standards amongst today’s Antipodean stars proves regrettably commonplace.
Plans for Nigel
Despite presently contending with a workless winter courtesy of the lacklustre agent (hospitalised) and “complaints” from three former co-stars (liars), this stalwart of stage and screen must never forget those less fortunate.
Look no further than my long-time foe Nigel Havers — forced once more to make a clod of himself cashing in over at the London Palladium for weeks on end, before being reduced to entertaining gullible grandmothers up and down the land with a “lucrative” UK tour in 2026.
Things may look bleak here, but who’d want to be silly old Nigel right now!
Only a year since memorably tearing up an “AI-generated acceptance speech” to the delight of Hollywood types, Helen Mirren deftly shifts allegiance.
Now marvelling at a life and career “on the cusp of artificial intelligence”, she sweetly announces: “I love that every day there’s a new, extraordinary technological thing to be amazed by!”
Our canny Dame’s seamless knack for changing tune whenever professional pragmatism requires (sexists/ageists/pervy Parky) can only be admired.
Tackling naysayers head-on, the BBC defiantly confirms of Doctor Who: “We are delighted that Russell T Davies has agreed to write us another spectacular Christmas special for 2026!” Festive thanks to Broadcasting House for clarifying dear Russell’s second stint at the helm hasn’t been the costly dog’s dinner hitherto imagined.
With Tony Hopkins leading the charge, it’s once more de rigueur for leading celebrity actors of the day to triumphantly recall being told they “wouldn’t amount to anything” by blinkered authority figures in formative years. One wonders about all those budding stars told the opposite, as we so seldom hear from them.
Contrary to juvenile suggestions otherwise, loyal readers will recall one’s support and enthusiasm for the nephew’s endeavours in California has remained unstinting ever since he abruptly jetted off from Heathrow back in September.
With my own 55-year-old career temporarily on hold back home, imagine the unqualified joy when belatedly learning that the boy has landed his first “major” US telly role in a long-running series I’ve never had reason to hear of!
Having selflessly taught the cocky fellow just about everything he knows, this proud uncle/mentor (himself betrayed by the Americans decades ago) must rightly consider this a professional success for both of us.
A year to remember
Despite professional fortunes coming to a shuddering halt in October — courtesy of regrettable factors already touched upon — yours truly must endeavour to maintain perspective when reflecting on the past 12 months as a whole.
Though the treachery of the Actors’ Benevolent Fund and the “financial disaster” that was the one-man stage show count amongst the year’s blows, spirits were buoyed by an assurance telly execs of 2025 continued, in the main, to recognise the “range” I unfailingly bring at this advanced point of the career: notably, whenever casting bearded elders, historic sex criminals, or a befuddled racist from Dorset. Onwards and upwards!
