The weekly Entertainment roundup in the world of celebs. The sort of thing you’d hear from a bloke propping up the bar at The Dog & Duck, pint in hand, giving his unsolicited take on the week in entertainment.

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I’ll tell you what, the world of entertainment has properly lost the plot this week. You can’t turn on the TV,  or scroll through your phone without being assaulted by some new cultural revelation that makes you wonder if civilisation is quietly packing its bags and slipping out the back door.

Take Tracey Emin, for a start. She’s announced that if she made "My Bed"  today, it would be “tidy, clean and boring.” Well, congratulations, Trace — you’ve just described every Airbnb in Britain. The original was a national treasure: a duvet that looked like it had been dragged through a nightclub, a pair of knickers that had seen things, and enough empty bottles to open a branch of Bargain Booze. It was the only artwork in history where the gallery staff needed rubber gloves and a tetanus booster. Now she reckons she’d make it neat? That’s not art that’s a Premier Inn.

Meanwhile, the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame has decided to nominate Phil Collins, Pink, and Shakira, which is a line‑up so chaotic it feels like someone’s drawn names out of a tombola at a village fete. Phil Collins, fair enough  the man’s been drumming since before electricity. Pink? She’s spent 20 years swinging from the ceiling like a Cirque du Soleil performer who’s lost her satnav. And Shakira well, her hips don’t lie, but the Hall of Fame clearly does, because rock & roll has officially expanded to include anything with a pulse and a tour schedule. At this rate, next year they’ll induct Mr Blobby and the bloke who plays the spoons on Brighton seafront.

Over in tellyland, Doctor Foster is returning for a third and final series, which is great news for anyone who enjoys watching middle‑class people destroy each other with passive‑aggressive comments and wine the size of a goldfish bowl. The last series ended with more tension than a family WhatsApp group during Christmas dinner. Now they’re promising a “final showdown,” which presumably means someone’s going to get pushed into a Waitrose display or have their Volvo keyed. I’ll be watching, obviously  it’s the only show where the real villain is the British education system.

Then there’s the BBC, who managed to broadcast a racial slur at the Baftas, proving once again that live television is just a very expensive way of saying, “What’s the worst that could happen?” The corporation apologised, naturally, in that very BBC way  a statement so carefully worded it might as well have been written by a hostage negotiator. You could practically hear the internal memo: “We deeply regret the incident and would like to remind staff that microphones are not decorative.”

In more wholesome news, Buzz Lightyear and Woody are back together in the trailer for Toy Story 5, because apparently Pixar has decided that emotional closure is for cowards. Every time they say a Toy Story film is the last one, another one appears like a Disney‑branded poltergeist. Don’t get me wrong  I love those plastic idiots  but at this point Andy’s toys have had more comebacks than Take That. By Toy Story 8, Woody will be in a mobility scooter and Buzz will be trying to remember his Wi‑Fi password.

And finally, Game of Thrones is returning  not to TV, but as a stage play opening in the UK this summer. Because what the world really needs is more Lannisters, but this time with a 20‑minute interval and a £6 ice cream. They’re promising dragons, battles, and political intrigue, which is ambitious considering the average theatre budget stretches to a smoke machine and a bloke in a cloak. I’m expecting a dragon that looks like it’s been made out of papier‑mâché and a sword fight choreographed by someone who’s only ever seen fencing on YouTube. Still, it’ll sell out instantly, because people will pay good money to watch anything as long as it’s described as “immersive.”

So that’s your week in entertainment: unmade beds, confused Hall of Fame nominations, middle‑class warfare, BBC chaos, resurrected toys, and a stage play that will almost certainly involve at least one actor shouting “WINTER IS COMING” while sweating under a spotlight. Culture is alive,  it’s just not well.


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