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The music world lost one of its quiet revolutionaries this week. Rick Davies, the soul behind Supertramp’s distinctive sound, passed away at 81 in his Long Island home on September 5th. While perhaps not as widely recognized as some of his contemporaries, Davies’ influence on progressive rock and pop music stretches far beyond the spotlight he often avoided.

Born to working-class parents in Swindon, England — his mother a hairdresser, his father a merchant navy seaman — Davies’ musical awakening came through an unlikely source. The thunderous rhythms of Gene Krupa’s drumming crashed through the stuffy British radio landscape of his youth like a bolt of lightning. “That one hit me like a rocket. It was like water in the desert,” Davies once mused during a 1997 chat with Pop Culture Classics, his characteristic dry wit showing through even in reminiscence.

The story of Supertramp begins in 1969, when Davies, then 25, crossed paths with Roger Hodgson. Their partnership would prove both brilliant and combustible — a classic case of opposing forces creating something greater than their parts. Davies’ working-class pragmatism clashed and merged with Hodgson’s privileged background, somehow spinning their differences into musical gold.

Success didn’t come overnight. The band’s first two albums barely made a ripple in the vast ocean of 1970s rock. But 1974 changed everything. “Crime of the Century” burst onto the scene, showcasing Davies’ growing confidence as both songwriter and vocalist. His gravelly voice on “Bloody Well Right” became one of the band’s calling cards, though Davies himself would probably just shrug and call it a good day’s work.

Then came 1979’s “Breakfast in America” — the album that would define not just Supertramp’s career but an entire era of progressive pop. Two Grammys and quadruple Platinum status later, Davies’ masterful keyboard work and songwriting on tracks like “Goodbye Stranger” had helped create something truly special. The album somehow managed to be both commercially accessible and artistically adventurous — no small feat in any era.

But success, as it often does, brought complications. The creative tension between Davies and Hodgson finally snapped in 1983, leading to a split that would spawn decades of legal battles. Just this past April, another court decision regarding songwriting royalties added another chapter to their complicated history. Yet through it all, Davies remained Supertramp’s steady hand, continuing to perform until health issues — specifically multiple myeloma — forced him to cancel a planned 2015 tour.

In a business notorious for its fleeting relationships, Davies’ marriage to Sue in 1977 stands out as a remarkable exception. Their partnership transcended the personal when Sue stepped into the role of band manager in 1984, a position she held until the end. It’s a touching reminder that sometimes the best harmonies happen off-stage.

Looking back now, as we approach 2025’s rapidly evolving music landscape, Davies’ contribution to popular music feels more significant than ever. His ability to bridge the gap between progressive complexity and pop accessibility helped create a template that countless musicians still reference today. While he may have left us, the intricate keyboard lines and thoughtful compositions he crafted continue to echo through the years, touching new generations of listeners who might not even know his name.

In the end, perhaps that would suit Davies just fine — letting the music speak for itself, while he simply played on.

The 2025 VMAs proved that some things never change — especially music’s uncanny ability to bring people together. On a balmy September night at New York’s UBS Arena, the ceremony pulled off something unprecedented: a simultaneous broadcast on both CBS and MTV that managed to feel both nostalgic and thoroughly modern.

Perhaps the night’s most touching moment came through its tribute to Ozzy Osbourne. The Prince of Darkness had left us just weeks after Black Sabbath’s final bow, and the weight of his absence hung heavy in the air. Jack Osbourne’s pre-recorded introduction, flanked by his four daughters, struck just the right chord between celebration and remembrance. “I know for sure it would make me incredibly happy to see these great musicians carry on his legacy,” he shared, his voice catching slightly.

What followed wasn’t just another tribute performance — it was rock history in the making. Yungblud, that electric force of nature from the TikTok generation, absolutely owned “Crazy Train” before seamlessly sliding into the haunting melody of “Changes.” Then came the moment nobody saw coming: Steven Tyler and Joe Perry of Aerosmith materialized onstage for “Mama, I’m Coming Home.” The whole thing felt less like a memorial and more like a torch being passed between generations of rock royalty.

Speaking of passing torches — Ricky Martin showed up looking like he’d raided his own closet from 1999 (black leather bandana and all) to accept MTV’s first-ever Latin Icon Award. His performance? Pure fire. Between “Livin’ La Vida Loca” and “The Cup of Life,” Martin reminded everyone why he helped crack open the door for today’s Latin music explosion. His acceptance speech hit home: “We just want to unite countries, break boundaries, and keep music alive.” Simple words carrying decades of meaning.

The night’s biggest twist came courtesy of Lady Gaga, fresh off her sold-out “Mayhem” tour dates. Draped in a dramatic black number with sleeves that could’ve doubled as wings, she snagged Artist of the Year — preventing either Taylor Swift or Beyoncé from breaking their deadlocked record of 30 VMAs each. But Gaga being Gaga, she couldn’t stick around long. After a heartfelt “I cannot begin to tell you what this means,” she was off to honor her Madison Square Garden commitment. Talk about dedication to the craft.

LL Cool J nailed it in his opening when he said music brings us together. On this particular night, with streaming numbers hitting record highs and AI-generated tracks stirring up industry debate, his words rang especially true. From Ozzy’s eternal rock spirit to Martin’s Latin rhythms and Gaga’s boundary-pushing pop, the 2025 VMAs served up a reminder that great music doesn’t just transcend time — it builds bridges between generations, genres, and cultures. Some awards shows feel manufactured; this one felt real.

Behind every iconic movie character lies a story of dedication, and sometimes, genuine physical struggle. As The Goonies approaches its landmark 40th anniversary in 2025, Martha Plimpton’s recent revelations about John Matuszak’s grueling experience as Sloth add a poignant layer to what many consider the heart of this beloved film.

Picture this — a sweltering film set, sometime in the mid-80s. Matuszak, a former NFL player built like a brick house, is practically swimming in sweat under pounds of prosthetic makeup. The mask that would become legendary was, quite literally, suffocating its wearer. “The poor man was sweating,” Plimpton shared on Lovett or Leave It, her voice tinged with retrospective sympathy. “Completely inaudible because of all that prosthetic makeup and that whole mask.”

Funny how time works — what audiences remember as pure movie magic often comes with a hefty behind-the-scenes price tag. Matuszak’s transformation into the lovable Sloth wasn’t just movie makeup; it was a test of endurance. Despite being barely able to make himself understood through the prosthetics, he managed to create a character that’s stood the test of time. Not bad for a guy who started his career tackling people on the football field.

The bittersweet note? Matuszak passed away at just 38, a few years after giving us this unforgettable performance. Makes you wonder if he ever knew just how deeply his character would embed itself in pop culture.

Fast forward to today, and Hollywood’s got sequel fever — again. Steven Spielberg and Chris Columbus are apparently cooking something up, though the original cast seems… let’s say cautiously skeptical. Josh Brolin (yeah, that Josh Brolin — before he was Thanos) probably said it best: “The movie’s received so well, generation after generation… The trepidation that I have is that you release something else that taints that.”

Look, we’ve all seen enough legacy sequels crash and burn lately to know where he’s coming from. Some things just can’t be replicated — like Matuszak’s dedication to a role that literally left him speechless on set.

As we gear up for the big 4-0 celebrations next year, these behind-the-scenes stories hit different. They remind us that sometimes the most magical movie moments come from real sweat, dedication, and maybe a touch of suffering. Whether the proposed sequel happens or not (and let’s be honest, in 2025’s reboot-happy Hollywood, it probably will), Matuszak’s Sloth remains a testament to what happens when an actor goes all-in, even when the costume’s trying to take them out.

Hey, maybe that’s the “crazy magic thing” Plimpton was talking about — not just the finished product, but the blood, sweat, and prosthetic-induced tears that went into making it. Some kind of movie magic, indeed.

The 2025 MTV Video Music Awards proved that sometimes, even in our hyper-produced entertainment landscape, raw emotion can still cut through the noise. On a night typically dominated by carefully choreographed spectacles and viral moments, it was an unvarnished tribute to the recently departed Ozzy Osbourne that left an indelible mark on everyone at New York’s UBS Arena.

Let’s be real — award show tributes can often feel forced, even hollow. But this wasn’t that. Not even close.

The unlikely alliance of Aerosmith veterans Steven Tyler and Joe Perry, alongside guitar wizard Nuno Bettencourt and British punk provocateur Yungblud, delivered something that felt more like a séance than a performance. Coming just weeks after Osbourne’s passing in July at 76, the air crackled with an electricity that no production team could manufacture.

Before the first power chord even rang out, something felt different. Yungblud stalked the red carpet wearing Ozzy’s own gold cross — a gift from their 2022 collaboration that spoke volumes about their connection. The necklace wasn’t just jewelry; it was a torch passed between generations. His Instagram tribute after Ozzy’s death said it all: “Your cross around my neck is the most precious thing I own.” No PR team could script that kind of genuine devotion.

Bettencourt brought his own emotional baggage to the stage. Fresh from what turned out to be Ozzy’s final Black Sabbath show in Birmingham, he’d described it as “heavy metal summer camp” — his voice catching slightly during pre-show interviews. “Ozzy was like our dad, our grandfather… it was like a community coming together.”

The tribute kicked off with Jack Osbourne’s recorded introduction — equal parts son’s farewell and rock historian’s tribute. Then came that moment. When Yungblud belted out that iconic “All aboard!” to launch into “Crazy Train,” something electric happened. It wasn’t imitation; it was channeling. Bettencourt’s fingers danced through Randy Rhoads’ legendary solo while the generational mix on stage embodied everything great about rock’s ability to reinvent itself.

And yeah, there were tears. Just like Bettencourt predicted.

The whole thing wrapped with Ozzy’s final recorded statement playing through the arena: “I’m a very lucky man. After all is said and done, I wouldn’t change a thing.” In an age where even our grief seems curated for social media, this hit different. This was real.

Maybe that’s what made this tribute stand apart from the usual awards show fare. In an industry that often feels like it’s running on autopilot, here was something that reminded everyone why rock and roll grabbed us by the throat in the first place. Raw. Real. Unfiltered. Just like Ozzy himself.

The autumn chill at Toronto’s Princess of Wales Theatre couldn’t compete with the heat of flashbulbs as Angelina Jolie — Hollywood’s perpetual sphinx — swept onto the red carpet Sunday evening. At 50, she’s still serving lessons in star power, this time wrapped in a brown maxi coat that played peek-a-boo with a thigh-high split. Classic Jolie, really. Some things never change, and thank heaven for that.

“Couture” — the latest from French director Alice Winocour — promised a serious dive into fashion’s glittering pool. No “Zoolander” antics or Altman-style satire here, darlings. Though perhaps they should’ve kept a few sequins in their pocket for lighter moments.

The film weaves through Paris Fashion Week like a dropped strand of pearls, scattering storylines in its wake. Jolie plays Maxine, an indie-horror director somehow caught in haute couture’s web. It’s impossible not to see shadows of reality here — whispers about Jolie’s potential farewell to Hollywood have been swirling faster than a Dior ballgown, with sources hinting she’s house-hunting abroad once her twins hit 18 next year.

Winocour attempts to stitch together quite the tapestry: a South Sudanese model’s rise, a makeup artist’s behind-the-scenes poetry, a seamstress’s dedication to her craft. But it’s Jolie’s plotline — complete with a rather heavy-handed cancer diagnosis — that threatens to pull focus like a sequined gown at a funeral. Even scenes with the magnificent Vincent Lindon can’t quite balance the weight.

The film’s rain-soaked runway finale? Gorgeous, naturally. But even with Filip Leyman and Anna Von Hausswolff’s haunting score, this particular collection feels more ready-to-wear than haute couture.

Mind you, there are moments. Jolie and Louis Garrel crackle with the kind of chemistry that can’t be manufactured — rather like a perfect vintage find. Critics have noticed, with one particularly astute observer noting how she “brings palpable life to the role, complicating her otherworldly magnetism with a dawning dread and sorrow.”

The premiere itself became something of a metaphor — Jolie’s graceful red carpet pirouettes providing the glamour while more substantial fare beckoned nearby. Russell Crowe and Rami Malek’s “Nuremberg” held court at Roy Thomson Hall, while Guillermo del Toro lurked about with his “Frankenstein” adaptation (and honestly, who doesn’t love a good monster story?).

Still seeking U.S. distribution, “Couture” floats somewhere between art house ambition and mainstream appeal — rather like its star, eternally dancing between Hollywood goddess and serious artist. The end result? Like last season’s must-have bag, it’s gorgeous to look at but perhaps not quite as functional as one might hope. Sometimes beauty really is only skin deep, darling.

Russell Crowe’s haunting transformation into Nazi leader Hermann Göring left TIFF audiences spellbound Sunday night — and perhaps a bit unsettled. The premiere of “Nuremberg” didn’t just earn a standing ovation; it sparked the kind of stunned silence that speaks volumes about cinema’s power to confront humanity’s darkest chapters.

Twenty-odd years after “Gladiator,” Crowe hasn’t lost an ounce of his commanding screen presence. If anything, the years have added layers of complexity to his craft that make this possibly his most unnerving performance yet.

“You can’t play a character like this and not walk away… feeling things that maybe shake you,” Crowe admitted on the red carpet, his characteristic Aussie directness softened by what seemed like genuine disquiet. The weight of portraying Hitler’s right-hand man had clearly left its mark.

Based on Jack El-Hai’s “The Nazi and the Psychiatrist,” the film pairs Crowe with Rami Malek in what’s shaping up to be 2025’s most intense psychological showdown. Malek brings a controlled intensity to American psychiatrist Douglas Kelley, tasked with determining whether Nazi prisoners were mentally fit for trial. What unfolds isn’t just a battle of wits — it’s a masterclass in sustained tension.

Director James Vanderbilt took some fascinating creative risks. He withheld archive footage of concentration camp victims from his actors until filming the courtroom scenes, a choice that paid off in raw, gut-punch reactions that’ll likely have Oscar voters reaching for their ballots come awards season.

The stellar ensemble — Michael Shannon, John Slattery, Leo Woodall, and a particularly sharp Richard E. Grant — creates what Deadline’s calling “urgently important” cinema. But let’s be real: this is Crowe’s show through and through.

Crowe’s approach to the role? Well, that’s complicated. “We’re going to have to get together tomorrow morning,” he quipped to festival-goers. “It’ll probably take about two hours to answer that question, so bring some sandwiches and something to drink.” Classic Crowe deflection, but the performance speaks for itself — he went all in, mastering German dialogue and diving deep into the psyche of a man whose ego convinced him he could control history’s narrative.

The November 7 release date isn’t random — it’s strategically positioned ahead of the trials’ 80th anniversary. Sony Pictures Classics clearly sees awards potential, and honestly? They might be onto something.

Behind the scenes, the project nearly flatlined multiple times. “The money dropped out three times,” Crowe revealed, though Vanderbilt’s “magnificent” screenplay (co-written with El-Hai) kept drawing talent back like moths to a particularly dangerous flame.

As Hollywood continues wrestling with how to portray historical atrocities — especially in our current climate of rising extremism — “Nuremberg” seems to have found that sweet spot between unflinching honesty and compelling storytelling. It’s a reminder that some stories need telling, even when — especially when — they make us squirm in our seats.

The film industry’s got a spotty track record with historical dramas (looking at you, 2024’s “Napoleon”), but “Nuremberg” might just raise the bar for what thoughtful, challenging cinema can achieve. Time will tell if audiences are ready for its particular brand of truth-telling.

Toronto’s crisp autumn breeze carried whispers of anticipation through the Princess of Wales Theater lobby. Rian Johnson’s latest mystery had just unspooled, and the buzz was electric. “Wake Up Dead Man” – less Christie, more Poe – marks an unexpectedly gothic turn for the Knives Out franchise, and thank goodness for that.

The film’s two-hour-plus runtime flies by in what feels like moments. Johnson, sporting his trademark thick-rimmed glasses and easy smile, introduced the screening with characteristic humility. “This is my favorite place to be in the world,” he told the crowd, before launching into a brief evolution of his mystery trilogy. From cozy manor houses to Mediterranean yachts, and now – somewhat improbably – to shadowy church crypts.

Josh O’Connor steals scenes as Father Jud Duplenticy, a young priest whose crisis of faith forms the story’s emotional backbone. His delivery of “young, dumb, and full of Christ” drew nervous laughter from the premiere crowd – the kind of laugh that comes when something’s both funny and uncomfortably true.

Daniel Craig’s Benoit Blanc doesn’t show up for a good thirty minutes (a bold choice that pays off beautifully). When he finally appears, declaring himself a “heretic” while standing in a centuries-old church, the audience collectively leaned forward. Craig’s post-screening quip about managing his co-stars being “literally like herding cats” felt particularly apt given the powerhouse ensemble.

Speaking of which – what a cast. Josh Brolin brings menacing charm to Monsignor Wicks, while Glenn Close’s Martha provides the film’s moral center. Kerry Washington’s fierce turn as lawyer Vera proves she’s still criminally underused in Hollywood. The way these veterans weave through Johnson’s labyrinthine plot feels less like acting and more like a masterclass in character work.

The film tackles heavy themes – disinformation, blind faith, manipulation – without getting preachy. Andrew Scott’s MAGA-adjacent author (complete with an honest-to-god moat) could’ve been cartoonish. Instead, he’s disturbingly believable. Maybe that’s what makes the film so unsettling – how familiar these extremes feel in 2025.

But here’s the thing: despite the darker territory, Johnson hasn’t forgotten how to entertain. The mystery clicks along with precise timing, each revelation landing like a well-timed punch. There’s something almost musical about how he orchestrates the chaos, never losing sight of the human drama at the core.

When “Wake Up Dead Man” hits select theaters November 26 (before its December Netflix debut), audiences might be surprised by its ambition. This isn’t just another whodunit – it’s a meditation on belief itself. What makes people accept the unacceptable? How does truth become negotiable? Heavy stuff for a franchise that started with Chris Evans in a sweater.

Johnson has done something remarkable here. By marrying Poe’s gothic sensibilities with modern anxieties about truth and manipulation, he’s created something that feels both timeless and urgently current. The result? A mystery that doesn’t just ask who committed the crime, but makes us question what we’re willing to believe – and why.

Not bad for a movie that includes a chase scene through a church bell tower.

What a difference a year makes at the Venice Film Festival. As Jim Jarmusch’s “Father Mother Sister Brother” claims 2025’s Golden Lion, it’s hard not to recall last year’s festival — when the Lido transformed into something closer to a Hollywood tabloid circus than a celebration of cinema.

Jarmusch’s latest masterwork, featuring Cate Blanchett in what might be her most nuanced performance yet, weaves together three distinct narratives across different continents. The film’s triumph marks a refreshing return to form for both the director and the festival itself. Gone are the social media storms and conspiracy theories that dominated last year’s headlines — replaced by thoughtful discussions about cinematography and narrative innovation.

Speaking of storms — who could forget the “Don’t Worry Darling” saga? The film’s premiere became less about Olivia Wilde’s psychological thriller and more about an increasingly bizarre series of events that felt like they’d been scripted by a particularly imaginative gossip columnist.

There was the now-legendary “spit-gate” incident (did Harry Styles really aim saliva at Chris Pine’s lap during the premiere? Pine’s team certainly didn’t think so). Then came Florence Pugh’s fashionably late arrival, Aperol Spritz in hand, dressed in show-stopping purple — a moment that spoke volumes about reported behind-the-scenes tensions.

Harry Styles, bless him, provided some of the most memorable press conference quotes in recent memory. His earnest observation that the movie “feels like a movie” somehow managed to be both endearing and slightly baffling — rather like watching a puppy discover its own reflection.

This year’s ceremony has thankfully steered clear of such theatrics. Kaouther Ben Hania’s “The Voice of Hind Rajab” earned the Silver Lion Grand Jury Prize, while Benny Safdie’s direction of “Smashing Machine” secured him the Silver Lion. These victories remind us what Venice does best: celebrating bold, innovative filmmaking that pushes boundaries without requiring social media investigations.

Chris Pine perhaps summed up last year’s chaos best when he noted that if there was drama, he “absolutely didn’t know about it, nor really would have cared.” His measured response feels particularly poignant now, as Venice reclaims its identity as cinema’s most prestigious showcase.

The success of “Father Mother Sister Brother” serves as a fitting bookend to this tale of two festivals. While last year’s drama proved irresistibly entertaining, there’s something deeply satisfying about watching Venice return to its roots — even if part of us might miss the memes.

After all, isn’t that the magic of cinema? Sometimes it’s the carefully crafted narrative that moves us, and sometimes it’s the unexpected drama that unfolds when the cameras stop rolling. Venice, it seems, has room for both — though perhaps not in the same year.

Detroit’s sporting landscape hit a fever pitch this Saturday, serving up a triple-header of excitement that had Motor City fans glued to their screens and seats. From contract extensions to home run heroics — and yeah, even some wrestling drama thrown in for good measure — the day packed enough action to fill a highlight reel.

The Lions, clearly not content with just making waves, decided to make a splash. Just hours before their season opener against those pesky Packers, they locked down speedster Jameson Williams with an eye-popping three-year, $83-million extension. Talk about timing. Williams, fresh off a 1,001-yard season (with seven trips to the end zone), joins forces with Amon-Ra St. Brown — who’d already secured his own massive payday with a four-year, $120-million deal earlier.

Detroit’s aerial attack? Let’s just say opposing defensive coordinators won’t be sleeping easy anytime soon.

But wait — there’s more. Over at the ballpark, something special was brewing. The Tigers, in what started as a classic pitcher’s duel between Tarik Skubal and Zack Wheeler, turned into an unexpected slugfest. Four bombs later (who saw that coming?), Detroit walked away with a 7-5 victory that had Phillies fans scratching their heads. Baseball, right? Just when you think you’ve got it figured out…

And then there’s the wrestling scene. Because apparently, Detroit needed more drama on Saturday. AEW’s Collision show delivered exactly that — with MJF pulling a classic heel move that would’ve made the old-school wrestlers proud. Picture this: Mark Briscoe’s going toe-to-toe with Konosuke Takeshita when suddenly, from beneath the ring (yeah, that old chestnut), emerges MJF.

The aftermath? Pure chaos. Officials scrambling everywhere, Don Callis trying to play peacemaker (there’s a first time for everything), and Takeshita looking like someone had stolen his lunch money. MJF’s challenge to Briscoe — “name the time, place, and stipulation” — sets up what’s bound to be a barn-burner at All Out in Toronto.

Look, Detroit’s been through its share of ups and downs. But Saturday? That was something else. From the gridiron to the diamond, with a dash of wrestling theatrics thrown in, the Motor City’s sporting pulse is beating stronger than ever. And hey, with the way things are shaping up, 2025 might just be the year Detroit reminds everyone why they call it the City of Champions.

Not bad for a Saturday, eh?

Scotland’s political landscape has taken a particularly dark turn this winter, as twin crises — one systemic, one deeply personal — cast long shadows over Holyrood’s marble halls. The nation’s housing emergency has reached catastrophic proportions, while a disturbing scandal involving a suspended MSP has left many questioning the very foundations of parliamentary privilege.

Let’s talk numbers — though they’re enough to make anyone’s head spin. Scottish councils have burned through an astounding £100 million on temporary accommodation in the past year. That’s not a typo. It’s a 128% increase in just four years, and if that doesn’t set off alarm bells, nothing will.

Glasgow City Council’s spending on temporary housing has hit an almost unfathomable £54,387,214 for 2024-25. Edinburgh’s not far behind, hemorrhaging £26,381,593. Behind these cold figures lies an even colder reality: 480 children currently call hostels or B&Bs home. Think about that for a moment.

And then there’s the Smyth affair.

Labour MSP Colin Smyth — now suspended and stripped of parliamentary access — continues to enjoy his taxpayer-funded Edinburgh flat. The charges he’s facing are deeply troubling: allegations involving hidden cameras in Parliament toilets and possession of indecent images of children. Yet somehow, he’s still claiming £865 monthly for his flat, plus £2,308 yearly for council tax and utilities.

The timing couldn’t be more grotesque. While Smyth maintains his comfortable lodgings (courtesy of the public purse), thousands of Scottish families face housing insecurity. Mark Griffin, Labour’s housing spokesperson, put it rather bluntly: “These miserable conditions were banned for a reason, but hundreds of children are still being subjected to the insecurity and instability of living in a hostel or B&B.”

Housing Secretary Mairi McAllan recently unveiled what she’s calling an emergency plan — £4.9 billion over five years for affordable housing. Sounds impressive, doesn’t it? Until you realize it’s rather like trying to extinguish a forest fire with a garden hose. Sure, the government claims this could provide “up to 24,000 children with a warm, safe home,” but with 10,000 children currently homeless, the math feels a bit… optimistic.

Graham Simpson, Central Scotland MSP, didn’t mince words about the Smyth situation: “If there is no prospect of Colin Smyth returning to Holyrood any time soon then he should be seriously considering giving this up as he has no need for it.” Well, quite.

The contrast is stark enough to make even the most hardened political observer wince. On one side, families desperate for stable housing; on the other, an accused politician maintaining his cushy taxpayer-funded residence. It’s the sort of thing that might seem heavy-handed if you wrote it as fiction.

As winter 2025 settles in and energy costs continue their relentless climb, the question becomes unavoidable: How can Scotland justify maintaining the privileges of those who’ve betrayed public trust while failing to house its most vulnerable? The answer — or lack thereof — might well reshape Scottish politics for years to come.