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It's one a.m. You said one more episode. That was four episodes ago. And honestly? No regrets. Glimmerbox. Every season of everything you keep meaning to start. Tomorrow is tomorrow's problem.

The house lights dim. Somebody coughs. Somebody unwraps a sweetie. Then, silence. The Corriemoor Playhouse presents The Glass Harbour, from the fourteenth of March. Some things you have to be in the room for.

Twelve rounds. Two undefeated champions. One belt, and neither of them is giving it back. Saturday night, live and only on Brassfield Sports. Get the snacks sorted early. You won't want to leave the couch.

The gates open at midnight. Your party is ready. The Drowned Crown has been waiting a lot longer. Emberfall. The new adventure from Skywharf Games. Out Friday. Clear your weekend.

Tuesdays at Owlseat Cinemas: every film, every session, half price. Bring your mum. Bring your mates. Bring that person you're not quite sure about yet. Owlseat Cinemas. Big screen. Small bill.

In nineteen sixty-one, a lighthouse keeper wrote one last line in his logbook. Then he vanished. The Keeper's Ledger. A new mystery podcast from Wickmoor Audio. Thursdays. Best heard with the lights on.

There is a very specific joy in cancelled plans. Not in a mean way. You just suddenly have the whole Sunday. The blanket. The good snacks. And that list of shows everyone keeps telling you about. Quaywave has all of them. The big new dramas, the comfort sitcoms you've seen nine times, and a documentary about competitive sandcastles you did not know you needed. Quaywave. Plans are overrated.

In a town at the edge of the map, where winter lasts half the year, one girl has kept a promise for eleven years. She lights the lantern. Every night. No matter what. Now the lights across the valley are going out. And she is the only one who remembers why. Greyfell Pictures presents The Last Lantern of Oskarvik. Some promises are worth the dark. In cinemas December fifth.

Three days. Four stages. One field that will never be the same again. Thistlefield Festival is back, with forty acts, a silent disco in the woods, and the best street food this side of anywhere. Bring wellies. Bring a friend. Bring a jumper, because it will absolutely rain, and you will absolutely not care. Weekend tickets on sale Friday at ten. Thistlefield. See you in the mud.

Same city. Same river. Two ends of the same street, and a hundred and twenty years of arguing. This Sunday, it's derby day. We're live from two o'clock, pitchside, with every tackle, every chant, every goal, and every decision the referee will be hearing about for weeks. Fellgate Sport. Full build-up from noon, and the whole thing's free on the app. Because some matches are just matches. And this one isn't.

Picture it. The sun going down behind the ridge. A cold drink in your hand. And three thousand people singing the same chorus, badly, at the top of their lungs. Juniper and the Low Tide, live at the Stonebarrow Amphitheater, Saturday, July nineteenth. Lawn seats, reserved seats, and a whole lot of fireflies. Bring a blanket and bring the neighbors. Tickets on sale now at the box office or online. Stonebarrow. Where summer sounds better.

Hi, I'm Bec. Yesterday I found a sandwich in the washing machine. I don't know whose it was. I don't know how long it had been there. That's the kind of thing we talk about on Two Mums, One Mic. School runs, group chats, and the lies we tell about how much sleep we're getting. New episodes every Monday on Pebblecast. Put it on in the car. The kids aren't listening anyway.

Every Tuesday at eleven, the Bellwether Picture House puts the kettle on. There's a classic film on the big screen, tea and a scone for a fiver, and nobody tutting if you need to ask what he just said. This month it's the great screwball comedies, and I'll be there, in row F, same as always. The Bellwether Tuesday Matinee. Come for the film. Stay for the gossip.

There's a farm at the end of a quiet valley. It's a bit overgrown. The fence needs work. The chickens have opinions. It's yours now. Mossbrook Valley is a gentle game about planting things, fixing things, and getting to know a town that's been waiting for someone like you. No timers. No rush. Just rain on the roof. Mossbrook Valley, from Mossgate Interactive. Pre-order today.

Tied in the third. Forty seconds left. Faceoff in their end, and the whole building is on its feet. That's hockey on Rinkside Sports Network. Every game, every overtime, every glove on the ice when things get a little heated. Four live games a week, plus the Saturday Night Double, with the best crew in the booth. Rinkside. Get the app, get the channel, get your jersey out of the closet.

Out on the salt flats, nothing should survive. No shade. No fresh water. Ground so bright it hurts to look at. And yet, every spring, the flamingos come. Thousands of them, turning a white desert pink. Kingdom of Salt. A new natural history series, filmed over three years in some of the harshest places on Earth. Some of it is beautiful. Some of it is brutal. All of it is real. Premieres Sunday at eight, on Wildmarrow.

Ladies and gentlemen, the curtain is rising on the most toe-tapping, heart-thumping, jaw-dropping musical to hit our stage in years. Ferris and Fable. Twenty-two songs. Sixty costume changes. One very tired wardrobe department. It's a love story, a comedy and a tap number on a moving train, all before intermission. Now playing at the Alderton Theatre. Get your tickets before we run out of sequins.

Remember Thursday nights? Pizza on the floor, phone off the hook, and five friends in a diner that never, ever closed? Well. They're back. Older, a little greyer, and still arguing about who ate the last muffin in season two. Corner Booth: The Reunion. The whole original cast, one night only, streaming on Brightreel. Order the pizza. Call your old roommate. It's been twenty years. Let's catch up.

Sixteen teams entered. Two are left. One of them hasn't lost a map all season. The other came back from elimination three times just to be here. This is the Stormline League Grand Final. Best of five. Winner takes the trophy, the title, and a full year of bragging rights. Live Saturday at six Eastern, streaming free, with the full pre-show from five. Pick a side. Don't blink.

Back when I was a girl, Friday night meant one thing. Pile the blankets in the station wagon and get to the Whippoorwill Drive-In before sundown. Well, honey, it's still there. Double features every Friday and Saturday, all summer. Bring the kids, bring the dog, bring your own lawn chairs. The popcorn's still hot and the stars are still free. Whippoorwill Drive-In. Tell 'em I sent you.

Here's what I can promise you about Friday night at the Gilded Mule Comedy Club. Four comedians. Two-drink minimum. One guy in the front row who thinks he's part of the show. He is not part of the show. Doors at seven, laughs at eight, regret about the nachos at around eleven. The Gilded Mule. Fridays and Saturdays, downtown. Sit in the back if you're shy.

You could watch it at home. You know that. We know that. You could watch it on your phone, on the train, with your thumb over the corner of the screen. But there's a moment, right before the film starts, when the lights go down and a room full of strangers goes quiet at exactly the same time. Nobody tells them to. They just do. And for the next two hours, you laugh with people you'll never meet. You jump at the same moment. Somebody three rows back sniffs at the sad part, and you pretend not to notice, because you're sniffing too. That's not something you can stream. At Lumenhall Cinemas, we've got bigger screens, deeper seats, and sound you can feel in your ribs. But honestly, that's not why you come. You come for the room. Lumenhall Cinemas. See it together.

Four a.m. The stadium's empty. Somebody's out there painting lines on the grass that nobody will notice, and everybody would miss. A groundskeeper who's been here thirty years. A ticket clerk who knows half the season-ticket holders by their first name. A kid in the parking lot, three hours early, in a jersey two sizes too big. A woman at the concession stand who hasn't missed a home opener since nineteen ninety-one. They don't make the highlight reel. But they're the reason there's a game at all. This season, Ironvale Sports Network brings you every snap, every drive, every last-second kick. Seventeen weeks. Every team. But before all of that, before the anthem, before the lights, before the first whistle, there's four a.m. And the people who show up for it. Ironvale Sports Network. Season opener, Sunday. We'll see you there.

Captain's log. Day four hundred and twelve. The colony is gone. The signal is still broadcasting. I have one working engine, two days of air, and a crew who still believe I know what I'm doing. I don't. But I'm going anyway. If anyone finds this log, tell my sister I kept the promise. Tell her I tried. Starwake: Orbit of Ash. A story-driven survival game set on the last ring of a dying star system. Every choice changes who makes it home. Every mistake stays with you. Explore derelict stations, trade with strangers you shouldn't trust, and make the calls no captain wants to make. Build your crew. Keep them breathing. Find out who has been sending that signal, and why it's using your voice. From Farbright Studios, the team behind Hollow Tide. Starwake: Orbit of Ash. Launching October ninth. Pre-order now. The signal is waiting.

It's here. The full Saltmarsh Sound lineup. Friday night, headlining the Harbour Stage: The Velvet Gulls. With Moth Parade, Kid Lanyard, Dolores and the Deep End, and a very special sunset set from Ada Quinn. Saturday, the Harbour Stage belongs to Northern Static, with Pale Horse Club, Big Little Weather, Tuesday Rivals, and the return of Teddy Okoro. Sunday, it's Marigold Riot to close the whole thing out, plus the Foxglove Sisters, Sleepwalk Radio and Juno Vale. That's three days, sixty acts, one beach. Plus the Driftwood Stage, the silent disco in the dunes, and the only campsite where you can hear the sea from your tent. Saltmarsh Sound, the twentieth to the twenty-second of August. Tickets on sale Friday at nine. They were gone in four hours last year. Don't be the one watching the videos.

Hello. I'm Margaret, and for eleven weeks I have been directing Twelfth Night in the Little Ashwick village hall. Our Viola is a dental hygienist. Our Duke is the man who fixes your boiler. Our shipwreck is a bedsheet and a very enthusiastic Year Six with a watering can. We have rehearsed through two power cuts, one flu season, and a disagreement about the biscuits that I am not allowed to talk about. And I have never been prouder of anything in my life. The Little Ashwick Players present Twelfth Night, from the second to the fifth of April. Tickets are eight pounds, children free, and there's a raffle in the interval. Please come. They've worked so hard. And honestly, somebody needs to see the watering can. The Little Ashwick Players. Theatre, the hard way.

Hi. This is Theo Park. For about ten years, I was the fastest person I knew. Fastest reply. Fastest to say yes. First one in, last one out, and very proud of it. Then one Tuesday, I was sitting in my car in the office parking lot, and I couldn't make myself open the door. Not for any big reason. I just... couldn't. So I started asking people how they slow down. A beekeeper. A retired air traffic controller. A woman who spent a year walking the length of her own country. A man who has been building the same boat for twenty-two years. That's the show. It's called The Slow Lane. There's no advice, no ten-step plan. Just people, talking, at the speed people actually talk. New episodes every other Wednesday, from Brambleway Audio. No rush. It'll be there when you're ready.