The weekly review of Entertainment Shenanigans December 19th.

-


Well, what a week it’s been in the glitter splattered cesspit of UK entertainment, where celebrities continue to behave like malfunctioning Sims characters while the rest of us watch on, clutching our Greggs sausage rolls like rosary beads.  

First up, Joanna Lumley and Jennifer Saunders reunited at a screening for the Amandaland Christmas special, thrilling Absolutely Fabulous fans who hadn’t seen the duo together on screen since 2016. The tabloids called it “heartwarming,” which is code for “we’ve run out of adjectives and need to pad the column inches.” Lumley, now 79, looked radiant, proving that the secret to eternal youth is apparently starring in sitcoms and never admitting you’ve heard of TikTok.  

Meanwhile, Jeremy Clarkson’s Farm issued an urgent announcement after facing a ‘major blow’, which sounds less agricultural and more like he’s accidentally insulted a cow again. Fans were left clutching their copies of Top Gear DVDs, praying Clarkson doesn’t decide to plant quinoa instead of barley.  

Elsewhere, Sir Cliff Richard revealed he has been treated for prostate cancer, describing himself as “lucky”. Cliff, now 85, continues to defy medical science by looking like a man who’s been cryogenically frozen in a branch of Debenhams. His announcement was met with sympathy, though one suspects he’ll still be singing Mistletoe and Wine at Christmas until the sun explodes.  

In the realm of music nostalgia, Primal Scream sparked outrage after releasing a video accused of containing antisemitic imagery, insisting it was meant to “provoke debate”. Which is the entertainment equivalent of saying “we meant to spill the pint, it’s performance art.”  

Meanwhile, Spotify Wrapped dominated social media, with everyone pretending their top artist wasn’t actually “Lo‑Fi Beats to Cry Into Your Pasta”. Brits proudly shared their playlists, proving that nothing says cultural identity like admitting you’ve listened to Taylor Swift 400 times while stuck on the M25.  

Elsewhere in the surreal circus, Meghan and Harry were reportedly “humiliated” at Kris Jenner’s party after an A‑lister hit out at them. The couple, who now seem to attend celebrity gatherings like awkward cousins at a wedding, were apparently snubbed in Hollywood’s latest round of passive‑aggressive musical chairs.  

And in the land of nostalgia, John le Carré’s son spoke about his father’s legacy, describing him as “an enigma to the end”. Which is polite literary speak for “he was brilliant but also a bit of a nightmare at dinner parties.”  

Finally, the week was overshadowed by the sad passing of Rob Reiner, the legendary director behind This Is Spinal Tap, Stand By Me, The Princess Bride, and When Harry Met Sally. Reiner, 78, and his wife Michele were found dead in Los Angeles in what police confirmed was a homicide. Tributes poured in from across Hollywood, with Meg Ryan calling him “irreplaceable” and fans mourning the man who gave us some of the most quotable films in cinema history. It’s a grim, shocking end for a filmmaker whose work defined generations, and a reminder that even in a week of entertainment meltdowns and  rants, genuine tragedy cuts through the noise.



So there you have it: a week where Lumley and Saunders reunited like sitcom royalty, Clarkson’s cows staged a rebellion, Cliff Richard revealed his health battle, Primal Scream provoked outrage, Spotify Wrapped exposed our guilty pleasures, Meghan and Harry endured Hollywood humiliation, John le Carré’s legacy was revisited, and Rob Reiner’s passing cast a sombre shadow over the entertainment world.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Murder, Marrow, and Mayhem: The Unsettling Charm of the English Countryside.

-
Image
The English countryside.A green and pleasant land it was called in days of old, with Rolling hills, quaint cottages, sheep that look like they’re judging you. It’s all very charming until you realise that behind every hedgerow lurks a scandal involving jam, adultery, and possibly a vicar with a suspiciously large collection of antique swords. I mean, dear reader, let’s be honest. In London, sin is upfront. It wears a trench coat, sells knockoff Rolexes, and occasionally yells “Oi!” for no reason. But out in the countryside? Sin is passive-aggressive. It invites you in for tea, compliments your shoes, and then casually mentions that your great aunt may have poisoned her bridge partner over a disputed game of whist. You walk through a village with a name like “Little Diddlebury-on-the-Wold” and think, “How lovely!” Meanwhile, the local Women’s Institute is embroiled in a turf war over who gets to organize the annual scone bake off, and someone’s prize-winning marrow has myst...
Read more

The Unfunny Business of Laughing at Your Troubles.

-
Image
People say, “Laugh at your trobles”? Like it’s a prescription. Like your therapist is a stand-up comic. “Take two chuckles and call me when your life collapses.” I tried it. I laughed at my debt. Visa didn’t laugh back. I laughed at my ex. She took the house. I laughed at my job. They gave it to a robot named Clive who doesn’t even blink. Troubles don’t go away when you laugh at them. They just sit there, smug little bastards, multiplying like rabbits on Viagra. You laugh at one, three more show up wearing clown noses and asking for rent. And the worst part? People think it’s healthy. “Oh, he’s coping through humor.” No, Karen, I’m coping through whiskey and sarcasm. Humor is just the garnish on my existential cocktail. They say laughter is the best medicine. Yea? Try telling that to someone with a kidney stone. “Don’t worry, sir, we’re out of morphine, but here’s a knock-knock joke.” Laugh at your troubles, they say. Sure. But don’t be surprised when your troubles start do...
Read more

The Gilded Shoebox: A Peek Behind Palace Gates.

-
Image
Buckingham Palace, That gilded shoebox where the royals play musical chairs with taxpayer money and the corgis have better healthcare than half the country.  So there it stands, like a giant wedding cake made of limestone and entitlement, slap bang in the middle of London, guarded by blokes in furry hats who haven’t blinked since 1974. It’s got 775 rooms, 1,514 doors, and not a single one leads to a Greggs. Tragic. Inside, it’s wall-to-wall gold leaf, antique furniture, and enough chandeliers to blind a small village. The King’s bedroom? Bigger than your entire flat, and he still complains the Wi-Fi’s patchy. The royal loo? Rumoured to flush with Evian and play Handel’s Water Music. Tourists flock to it like moths to a flaming pile of privilege, snapping selfies outside the gates while wondering if the guards are waxworks or just really, really bored. Meanwhile, Prince Whatsit is in the back garden trying to remember which cousin he’s not allowed to marry. And let’s not...
Read more