Remember waiting for a title card to tell you what song just changed your life? We dive into the strange magic of MTV: the Moonman years, the rock-first identity, the moment narrative videos made pop feel cinematic, and how a channel that never owned its content still owned youth culture for decades. With musician and long-time friend of the show Adam Follett, we revisit first encounters on Sky, gym TVs and pub screens; the electricity of Unplugged; and late-night marathons where Beavis and Butthead roasted your future favourite band.

If this episode brought back your favourite MTV memory—or made you rethink what music discovery can be—follow the show, leave a review, and share this with a friend who used to tape videos off the TV. What video did you wait hours to see?

Check out Adams music here https://linktr.ee/spookmuziek

and here is a link to the Richard Blackwood video mentioned (not the coffee up his ass one) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BrRVQIn1Ybs

The first day of secondary school doesn’t arrive gently. One moment you’re a confident primary veteran, the next you’re a tiny figure in a sea of corridors, stern voices, and older kids who look like adults. We dive into that jolt with stories of strict assemblies, baffling timetables, and the sudden pressure of uniforms, trainers, and the bag that could carry a weekend’s worth of luggage. It’s a trip through UK school nostalgia with equal parts nerves and laughter, where even the bus ride becomes a saga and a perfectly timed one-liner can crown a playground legend.

Enjoyed the trip back? Follow the show, share it with a friend who remembers their first day, and leave a quick review to help more nostalgic folk find us. What’s the one moment from your first day that still sticks—bus, bag, or bravado?

Remember when Saturday mornings meant rolling the dice on whatever sport TV gave you? We dive headfirst into the lost charms of Trans World Sport, the smoky brilliance of Indoor League, and the moments that made oddball competitions feel essential.

Subscribe, share with a friend who remembers kabaddi at breakfast, and leave a review telling us the strangest sport you ever watched on telly. Which one deserves a comeback?

A year that felt like a shrug still gave us more to laugh about than we expected. We start with brutal honesty—2025 gets a solid six out of ten—then sift the moments that made it strangely memorable: norovirus advisories that told you not to visit hospitals because “everyone’s ill,” bumblebee declines that quietly threaten our breakfasts, and the delicate line between a sharp heckle and a derailed gig. Along the way we tussle with AI that suggests designs it refuses to make, unpack why “neutral” TV hosts feel suspiciously synthetic, and revisit a stand-up hour that swaps belly laughs for brand power.

Summer delivers the good stuff. Oasis sound better than nostalgia should allow, the Lionesses grind their way to a Euros title that rewards patience over polish, and Coldplay accidentally spark a viral not-a-couple kiss. We also sit with loss—those artists and icons who felt permanent until they weren’t—and admit that sometimes a playlist hits harder the morning after the headline. If the grand narratives dodged us, live shows and shared screens stepped in, reminding us why crowds matter.

Then we go gloriously local. A football owner’s pyrotechnic pressers and collapsing cake, a front page celebrating a city street for being “the best it’s been in five years,” and an annual quiz decided by a furious debate: can whales jump higher than mountain lions? Add a delayed roadshow, a wildly amplified breathing mic, and the Saviours bracket that crowned a winner we’ll argue about until next year, and you’ve got the flavour of a year built from tiny stakes and big laughs. Hit play for a warm, sceptical, and very human rewind of 2025. If it made you smirk, share it with a friend. And if you shouted “mountain lion,” leave us a review and tell us why you’re right.

Ever tried to sum up a football year with a single name? That’s the mischievous magic of the Darren “Baby Boy” Byfield Award, and we’ve got its creator, Major Joe Stevenson, walking us through the 2025 edition with all the wit and precision it deserves. We open the hood on how a joke-turned-tradition captures the sport’s cultural memory better than any official honour: it isn’t about form charts or medals, but about who felt absolutely of-the-moment—peaking in the headlines, the memes, the pub chat, then slipping back into the pack.

We trace the award’s roots from a throwaway tweet into a festive calendar marker, revisiting why names like Brian Deane, “Actually Good Chris Wood,” and Ben Brereton Díaz landed so hard. Then we dig into the 2025 group stage: big names beside cult curios, Women’s Super League stars alongside viral flashes, and those impossibly specific labels that make you grin—“Manchester City’s Frank Lampard” energy applied to a new crop. Expect sharp cases for and against contenders like Marcus Rashford “at Barça,” Scott McTominay, Dan Burn, Semenyo, Everton’s Jack Grealish, Mary Earps, Chloe Kelly, Hannah Hampton, and Sam Kerr, with a frank look at recency bias and the real criteria: who defined the year.

We also dive into the delicious chaos of the Gimmick Battle Royal, featuring still‑unemployed Henry Winter, the big‑haired United fan, and a Graham Potter face swap—because modern football memory lives online as much as on the pitch. Can a manager like Big Ange fit the Byfield mould after a year of whiplash highs and lows? Should non‑players ever win? We make the case, challenge lazy picks, and celebrate the award’s charitable backbone, where witty donations fuel real impact.

Vote, reminisce, and help bottle 2025 in one unforgettable name. If you enjoyed the episode, follow the show, share it with a friend, and leave a quick review—then tell us your Byfield winner and why.

The first spark wasn’t the tree or the lights—it was the Argos catalogue hitting the table and turning hopes into a plan. We tap into the warm rush of childhood Christmas in the UK, remembering the magic made from small rituals: stockings by the radiator, a bitten carrot on a tray, and parents pulling off midnight engineering to assemble bikes and bunk beds without a squeak. It’s a love letter to the belief we chose to hold, even when the seams showed.

We look at how culture framed the day: the TV Times circled in pen, a nation watching the same specials, and those giddy chart battles where Mr Blobby somehow edged out Take That and E17 wore the crown over Oasis and Mariah. There’s affectionate snark for modern schedules, gentle digs at panto, and stories of carol services that still make the season feel communal. And then the presents—Mr Frosty envy, Paul Daniels magic sets, Screwball Scramble, the Yamaha or Casio keyboard that promised instant talent, and the consoles that redrew the living room. The bike reveal. The power of “this is mine” at 6 a.m.

Christmas Day is joy and chaos: rules about opening small to big, stockings first, and a dinner plate debate that will never end—turkey versus beef, sprouts for honour, Yorkshire puddings for everyone, and absolutely, yes, gravy. We talk about the afternoon lull, the quiet reset, and why Boxing Day might secretly be better for actually enjoying what you got—leftovers, football, and the calm to play without interruption. Then comes the limbo week and the truth we eventually learn: the magic returns when you make it for someone else.

Press play for laughter, shared memories, and a reminder that the best part of Christmas isn’t the perfect logic; it’s the effort, the surprise, and the moment a child believes. If this brought back a memory, share it with a friend, subscribe for more nostalgia, and leave us a review to help others find the show.

A winter night on the Western Front. Candles on the parapet, Stille Nacht drifting over the mud, and a shouted pledge from the dark: “If you don’t shoot, we won’t.” We wade into the 1914 Christmas Truce to separate letters from legends and understand how enemies chose to be neighbours for a day.

We start with the frontline atmosphere five months into the war—young soldiers, shaky routines, and small daily rituals that hinted at something larger. From there, we trace how carols became conversation, why British and German troops stepped into no man’s land, and what the best contemporary sources say about handshakes, cigarettes, and the exchange of gifts. The football story gets a careful look: were there proper matches or just kickabouts in cratered fields? We weigh historian scepticism against eyewitness accounts from both sides, exploring how myths grow around moments that feel too human to fit official histories.

As the truce dissolves under orders and the war hardens with gas and attrition, we explore what ended this fragile peace and why it never returned. Along the way, we examine the truce’s afterlife in culture—from The Farm’s All Together Now to a controversial Sainsbury’s advert—and ask what remembrance should look like when commerce gets involved. The heart of the episode is simple and stubborn: even in a vast, indifferent war, soldiers found space to sing, smile, and bury the dead together.

If this story moved you—or changed your mind about the famous “match”—share the episode with a friend, subscribe for more UK nostalgia deep-dives, and leave us a review with your favourite detail from the Christmas Truce. What would you have sung across the trenches?

What if Scrooge wore a leather jacket, ran a book in a labyrinth of tower blocks, and woke up to the same Christmas Eve until he finally changed? We dive into the 2000 ITV retelling of A Christmas Carol starring Ross Kemp, where Dickens’ moral backbone is threaded through a British crime fantasy complete with a murdered partner, haunted posters, and a community held hostage by debt. We talk about why the surreal set works like a dreamscape, how the time-loop structure sharpens the stakes, and why Kemp’s casting both winks at Grant Mitchell and still finds something tender and new.

We break down the three hauntings with all their twists: a father-shaped Past that drags up grief and neglect, a Present that shows joy without money and the quiet heroism of families under pressure, and a Future that confronts a lonely grave and a legacy nobody wants. The loop keeps resetting until Eddie stops performing goodness and starts doing it when no one’s watching—getting homeless teens treated without credit, wiping balances clean, freeing Bob from a life of servitude, and making amends the slow, unglamorous way. Yes, there are quirks—overnight stairlifts and choir cameos—but the story’s heart beats through the flourish.

Along the way we tackle the EastEnders shadow, the class lens that makes this version sting, and the surprisingly moving beats that caught us off guard. The closing reveal of the mute boy’s identity ties redemption to the future in a way that feels unabashedly festive: change today shapes the family you might yet have. If you’re curious about bold adaptations, British TV nostalgia, or the evergreen power of Dickens’ message, this one’s a rich, strange, satisfying watch.

Enjoyed the conversation? Follow the show, share it with a friend who loves a good retelling, and leave a quick review—what modern A Christmas Carol works best for you?