They say you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince. Having worked my way through pretty much the entire amphibian world on three continents and sucked the life out of every toad imaginable, I’m still no closer to finding anyone I’d want to spend my last croak with.
Sadly, in the cloud of political correctness, the best movie of the year has been obliterated. I defy you ever, in your lifetime, to see a more brilliant work of art than Mark Mylod’s The Menu.
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.