Oh baby Jesus I’ve just watched the BBC’s latest attempt to showcase celebrities doing stuff outside their comfort zone. Entitled Tumble it features a bunch of C-listers doing tumbling and simple gymnastic stuff. It’s like Splash! but not as scary or fascinating, which makes it about as much fun as anal warts. It is beyond dire. It’s diarrhoea.
Well did you catch the news this week that poor old George Michael has been struck down with another mystery illness? No it’s not a disturbing tendency to look increasing like Roy Keane. It seems that not one but two ambulance crews were called to his home after a ‘worried friend’ called the emergency services about George’s condition. They administered medical care for 4 hours before taking poorly George to hospital for emergency treatment, according to a spokesman for the ambulance service. Blimey he must have been a right old condition but fear not GM fans because his publicist, who’s clearly a medical expert as authoritative as that nice Mr Clifford, said he’d only been admitted for ‘routine tests’. So that’s alright then. Phew eh.
Back in the Middle Ages, and long before the officers on Operation Yewtree knocked on the door, I can remember Jimmy Tarbuck cracking a line about how amusing it would have been if the actress Kitty Fisher had got married to the C&W singer Conway Twitty as she’d have to endure a married life being called Kitty Twitty. Oh how we laughed.
I know millions will disagree but there was unconfined joy in this household this week at the news that Sir Bruce Forsyth has at long last decided to remove his patent leather shoes and that ridiculous rug and retire from presenting Strictly Come Dancing. Jeez I’ve had to wait until the hoofer turned 86 (that’s like 653 in old goat years) before giving up squinting at his cue cards and mangling his useless quips and punchlines. I was starting to believe that the cancer would get me before he called it a day. Hufriggingrrah
Well here’s a picture of the bonkers couple Kanye West and Kim Kardashian just before their baby was born. It’s been very difficult to avoid exposure to this particular celebrity pregnancy. I don’t care anything about the couple if truth be told but like everyone I guess I was wondering what dopey celebrity ‘K’ name they were going to give the little ‘un. My money was on King Size.
Shocking news eh to learn of the death of James Gandolfini at just 51. I like this image of him in a classic Tony Soprano pose – that look of calm menace was just brilliant characterisation. Surely he was the finest actor in the most gripping TV programme of the noughties. A poignant line from his character Tony reflecting on life as head of the family….
“All due respect, you got no f—–g idea what it’s like to be Number One. Every decision you make affects every facet of every other f—–g thing. It’s too much to deal with almost. And in the end you’re completely alone with it all.”
So here’s the tweet from Wayne confirming the new member of the Rooney clan, Klay, brother of course to young Kai. Krikey that’s one kooky moniker for a kid don’t you think? How on earth did they kome up with that krazy Khristian name? Do you think they may like watching ‘Keeping up with the Kardashians’ a banal US tv show about a family all seemingly christened with names beginning with the letter K (apart from the son who’s called Rob, of course)? What other explanation is there?
Well regular readers may recall a posting I did fairly recently on that podgy cup cake, Paul Hollywood, co-host of the Great British Bake Off. Here’s the link if you didn’t see it then:
It’s a dry and witty read of course but mostly it’s cutting as I can’t take easily to a 47 year old man whose twin passions are a) cake-making and b) his bloody appearance. He should have the words ‘sponsored by VO5 extreme gel wax’ etched onto his forehead. There’s just something deeply unappealing and untrustworthy about a long-term married man whose grooming regime would make Liberace blush. And wouldn’t you know it, he’s only gone and run off with his co-presenter on the American version of the show 34 year old Marcela Valladolid. You could have knocked me over with some choux pastry when I read those headlines. Who’da thunk it eh? I kinda knew all that styling mousse wasn’t for Mary Berry’s benefit. Talk about having your cake and wanting to eat some muffin on the side. I wonder what the missus said when Paul offered her this tiny peace offering? Oh I wish I’d been there: