The Weekly Celebrity News roundup and shenanigans. 28th November

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Stranger Things has returned. This is the show where teenagers save the world from interdimensional horrors while their parents remain blissfully unaware, which is exactly how high school felt for me, except my “Upside Down” was algebra. The kids are now older, which means they’re legally allowed to drive cars, vote, and complain about lower back pain. Meanwhile, the monsters are still slimy, tentacled, and apparently unionised, because they keep showing up season after season demanding more screen time.  

The plot, as far as I can tell, involves a small town in Indiana where supernatural events occur with the frequency of potholes. Government scientists are always lurking, which is realistic, because if you’ve ever dealt with government paperwork, you know it must have been designed by creatures from another dimension.  

And then there’s Eleven, the girl with telekinetic powers who can defeat monsters, but still struggles with the concept of Eggo waffles. This is relatable. I too have stared at a toaster wondering if it was plotting against me.  

The real miracle of Stranger Things is that these kids manage to save humanity while also maintaining friendships, romantic entanglements, and hairstyles that defy gravity. When I was their age, my greatest accomplishment was finding a pair of jeans that fit.  

So yes, Stranger Things returns. The monsters are terrifying, the nostalgia is thick, and somewhere in Indiana, a Demogorgon is probably binge‑watching Friends.  


 Rupert Grint says he’ll never step out of Ron Weasley’s shadow. And honestly, who among us has stepped out of Ron Weasley’s shadow? I mean, the guy spent seven books and eight movies being the designated “comic relief best friend,” which is basically the cinematic equivalent of being the human airbag. Harry gets the glory, Hermione gets the brains, and Ron gets… a pet rat that turns out to be a middle-aged criminal. That’s not a résumé, that’s a cautionary tale.  

But here’s the thing: shadows are underrated. Shadows are cool. Batman lives in one. Sundials depend on them. And without shadows, how would Instagram influencers know where to stand for “golden hour”? So Rupert, embrace it. You’re not trapped in Ron’s shadow—you’re renting prime real estate in the cultural subconscious. And unlike Harry Potter, you don’t have to fight Voldemort. You just have to keep cashing residual cheques.  


Michael Bublé is headlining the Lytham Festival, which is perfect, because nothing says “British seaside town” like a Canadian crooner in a tuxedo. Picture it: gulls circling, fish and chips cooling, and Bublé suavely belting out “Feeling Good” while locals wonder if they should clap politely or propose marriage. Festivals usually mean mud, beer, and someone named Gaz playing Oasis covers, but this one promises swing, charm, and possibly a conga line led by pensioners. Honestly, if Bublé can make Lytham feel like Vegas for one night, I say give him the keys to the pier.


And finally Drag Queen La Voix pulled out of strictly with an injury. You ever notice how celebrities on Strictly Come Dancing treat injuries like badges of honor? La Voix bows out, and suddenly it’s less “glitterball glamour” and more “emergency room chic.” I mean, I sprain my ankle just looking at a flight of stairs, and nobody offers me sequins or sympathy. But on Strictly, one pulled hamstring and you’re practically Shakespearean—tragic, noble, and still wearing rhinestones.



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