I feel about Valentine’s Day the way Dickens’s Scrooge felt about Christmas. Bah humbug, I scream, when yet another card from a florist pops through my door, asking me to send flowers to my loved one. Bah humbug to the red hearts, ribbons and grinning teddy bears in every shop window.
There were also some really left of field ads in the mix, including one for VMS menopause relief. That’s something of a mind leap to go from shouting, ‘Great touchdown!’ at your screen to, ‘What can I take for my night sweats?’ The Superbowl should be a place where women of a certain age can for a few precious hours not be reminded of how vile growing older is.
Humans have long been fascinated by the Moon and a full Moon is undoubtedly one of the great beauties in the sky. But does its cycles, as many believe, affect human behavior? Can its waxings and wanings really teach us things about ourselves? I was keen to find out.
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.
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.