Has Ewan McGregor mellowed or is he still a Mr Grumpy Chops?

The Herald Scotland

25-05-2025

Back in 2004 they were just two skinny drifters on motorbikes, off to see the world, and what a lot of it there was to see in Long Way Round (London to New York), Down (John O'Groats to Capetown); and Up (Ushuaia in Argentina to LA.
Now the pair are back with Long Way Home (Apple TV+). The route will take them from Scotland to England via 17 European countries. Like their chosen bikes, both men are now of a certain vintage, MAMILS in leather rather than Lycra, and in the case of Boorman with a long and painful history of repairs.
For all those reasons and more - that title for a kick off - Long Way Home felt like a farewell. As McGregor said in the first episode, film companies don't like you heading off on motorbikes. Think of the insurance for a start.
But here they were, Charley and Ewan, or Ewan and Charley if you prefer. It always seemed like McGregor was the alpha of the pair, the more charismatic but grumpier one. Now in his fifties, had time mellowed him?
As the halfway point approached, the pair were in Norway, having been through Germany, Denmark, and Sweden. So far there had been no outbreak of the Victor Meldrews on McGregor's part, though he looked narked when a kid in Sweden pumped up the volume in his Volvo sound system. McGregor issued a word to the wise about hearing damage, but that was it.
With megabucks Apple TV+ now running the show there had been an upgrade in everything. The stop-offs were more interesting, and the back-up consisted of a third-person motorcycle escort plus a small crew in two electric trucks. Apart from that, the pair are all alone out there (eye roll number two).
Read more
I shouldn't mock because the back-up was needed when someone took a slight spill which could have been much worse.
'It's a pleasure riding with you Ewan,' said Boorman. 'It's been a pleasure riding with you too Charley, as always,' came the reply. If this is the last hurrah they are going out in style and, in McGregor's case, in a most unspanner-like way. Safe home, boys.
Scotland's Home of the Year (BBC1, Monday) has a reputation as a no-snark zone. So when a whiff of trouble enters paradise, as it did this week, it stands out like a broken window in a Bearsden cul-de-sac.
The first contender for the Highlands and Islands top spot was Tiny Skye Cabin, a small but perfectly formed structure down a dirt path. The interior was a study in minimalism. On the floor was a brown, indeterminate animal skin. It could have come from a sheep or a small bear. At least it cosied the place up a little, unlike the 'sofa', which was a wooden bench. 'This is SO comfortable,' said Danny in what must surely be the first sarky remark in the show's history.
Overall the extreme Ikea vibe was not cutting it with the judges. Oh, they praised aspects here and there, and judge Banjo caused giggles in the wet room when he 'accidentally' turned the shower on, but there was no getting away from it. The homeowners had committed the ultimate SHOTY crime of offences against soft furnishings - mainly by not having them.
'I feel like we're in Marie Kondo's house,' said judge Banjo, referencing the Netflix organising queen. 'She says throw it out if it doesn't spark joy. These guys have thrown a lot of stuff out.'
Much more the judges' cuppa was An Cala Cottage on Skye. The traditional bungalow, home to Caroline, Lee, and their collie Nuala, had been transformed using colour, charity shop finds and a custom-made bookcase.
'It's simple and unapologetic, and maybe a bit scruffy. I quite like it,' said Danny.
An Cala took first place. It was a cosy spot, but the score was the same as last week's modernist masterpiece in Central and Tayside. Do the two really compare? That's a battle for the final.
Rose Ayling-Ellis is having a moment. Make that more than a moment. Since winning Strictly she hasn't put a foot wrong, and this week she took on her first lead role in the crime drama Code of Silence (STV, Sunday-Monday). It was an above-par piece by writer Catherine Moulton (Baptiste, Hijack), but by far the best thing about it was Ayling-Ellis.
She played Alison Brooks, a young deaf woman washing pots in a local branch of His Majesty's constabulary in Canterbury, Kent. Called upstairs to CID one day, she was told 'all our lip readers are busy on other jobs' and would she mind helping out?
There was no time to stop and ponder whether that would happen because too much else was going on. Like Alison, the viewer was dropped into the middle of a fast-moving investigation and had to crack on regardless.
In another life, this clever young woman might be rising through the CID ranks herself instead of being paid minimum wage to help them out now and then. Not that Moulton, herself hearing-impaired, would be so crass as to point this out. Instead, the look on Alison's face said it all. Used to feeling invisible and excluded by her disability, she was now 'seen' and accepted. She could get used to this. 'I don't want to be hearing,' she said. 'I just want them to be a bit deaf.'
The same lightness of touch was seen in the way Code of Silence handled lip-reading. As Alison watched, words and parts of words floated onto the screen before swimming into focus.
Clarkson's Farm (Amazon Prime Video) returned for a fourth series. Confession time: I've never watched it. As a bunny-hugging veggie feminist Scot, I just assumed there was nothing in it I would enjoy and a lot that would irritate.
But as a TV critic that lily-livered attitude will not do. The show is a global hit, with fans trekking from all over the world to Clarkson's Diddly Squat Farm in Chipping Norton to worship their beer-bellied God. Must be something in it, right?
Which was how I came to spend an evening watching a young farmer lead a packed theatre in a singalong of The Combine Harvester (Brand New Key) and thinking the English were a weird lot. On stage was Kaleb Cooper, Clarkson's farm manager. In the new series, Kaleb has run off to join the showbiz circus, leaving Jezza on his tod. He was not happy.
'I'm thrilled to bits for Kaleb,' he said, fighting his way through the mud and rain to feed the pigs. 'I'm not a socialist. I want him to do well. I want him to make money. I want him one day to be able to buy his own farm. But he has left me a little bit in the lurch.'
Scene after scene followed of Clarkson stuffing things up. When not out in the fields he was at his desk, filling in forms to get government money. He was like The Archers' Brian Aldridge, but useless.
Help arrived in the form of Harriet, a young agency farmer. She was a tea person, Clarkson was coffee, but somehow they got along. Was there any chance they wouldn't?
That said, the whole enterprise stands or falls on its central character. If you don't care for him, his earthy humour, his general jeans-wearing old fogey schtick, there was unlikely to be anything to detain you here.
Tiny Skye Cabin was a masterclass in minimalism (Image: PHOTOGRAPHER:IWC Media)
Long stretches of not very much happening followed. He ordered eight tractors to test-drive and they all turned up at once. I think it was supposed to be hilarious. I could have also done without the pigs going off to slaughter.
But there were moments when he put all that 'stuff and nonsense' bluster to one side and came across as a decent sort, as when he and Harriet chat about farming's toll on mental health, particularly among young men.
As for how much time I'd like to spend with him in future, not sure. If he gave up the meat and became more of a Paul and Linda McCartney, Mull of Kintyre-type farmer, maybe. But you can bet whatever farm you like - that's never going to happen.