The only reason I went to see Tom Stoppard’s play Leopoldstadt last week was that it would give me 130 minutes’ respite from Howling Harry.
Hollywood has always presented itself as a great moral arbiter. As they did last night, actors take the opportunity, in their speeches, to lecture everyone else about what they should or should not be doing – before they get in their Bentleys en route home.
Having come from a journalistic background in which I really HAVE met the smartest, funniest and most brilliant people, I was optimistic that I was about to encounter similar.
Bravo’s Real Housewives of Beverly Hills’ had two contenders – Dorit Kemsley and Lisa Rinna, whose lips wouldn’t look out of place in a furniture shop. Kemsley wins it by a muscle, each season returning with a mouth that now looks in serious danger of devouring her head whole.
Unless I receive an invitation to Oprah’s balloon free party, it’s going to be another silent night, watching Andy Cohen and Anderson Cooper on the TV, getting increasingly jolly as they down shots.
It’s the greatest normalization of weird, and their relationship is at the heart of a show that celebrates love and friendship in utterly bizarre and often insane ways.
Thankfully, my world at 64 is very different from the one John Lennon and Paul McCartney portrayed in their song. And how different for `Lennon from the one he imagined. Murdered aged 40, he didn’t even get remotely close to 64.
‘You belong in Hollywood!’ my admirer enthused, having seen samples of my writing. ‘I love you already! You are the best!’ I was on that flight quicker than you could say Beam me up, Scottie.
A fan of excessively large bows and over-fussy outfits, Sutton’s attire is so jaw-droppingly bizarre on occasion, you could be forgiven for thinking she is drowning in a vat of marshmallows.
In terms of popularity, the warning signs that now accompany the start of every program are red rags to a bull. ‘Substances, language, violence, nudity, gore, sexual violence, smoking.’