Kyle Richards said possibly the most important thing ever uttered on The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills this week: you really don’t want to mess with someone from Bosnia.
With the exception of Sutton, all the women look as if they’re wearing three-seater sofas on their faces, but Dorit’s lips have furnished up to a whole new level.
All the abuse did was to confirm for me that the city is everything I said it was, and it reminded me that I’d also forgotten to mention provincial, parochial and, clearly, a haven for expats who have nothing better to do than abuse others on social media.
I’d say that Will hasn’t been handed down a punishment but a reprieve. He must be clapping his hands with glee that he doesn’t have to sit through that interminable ceremony for a decade.
I don’t for a second condone what Smith did, but Hollywood is a nest of vipers, double standards, and a breeding ground for hypocrisy of many kinds.
Did we really used to live at this pace? Was stress embedded into our every waking moment? I am not the only person who took stock of life and started to reassess what it was like BC (Before Covid) and what it might be after. I still do.
It’s never been clear how they acquired their alleged wisdom. Arriving with presents of gold, frankincense and myrrh for a new-born smacks of idiocy to me.
The truth is, that if a man is single, there is something wrong with him (all the good ones really are taken); but if a woman is single, the chances are that she has had the good sense and guts to ditch the men who have that something wrong with them.
Don’t be shocked by the number of dead animals on offer for human consumption; if it has a pulse, the Spanish will eat it.
What I liked about cones was that they were easy constructions. All the melting goo would seep nicely through the structure and you would never have to get your hands dirty. But they don’t make cones like they used to.