The Weekly Entertainment Round-Up Of The Last Seven Days In The world Of Entertainment. Entertainment news this week woke up, stretched, poured itself a questionable mimosa, and said, “Let’s make choices we can’t explain later.” And honestly, it delivered!

We begin  this week with the US Freedom 250 festival, which has experienced the kind of mass performer evacuation normally reserved for cruise ships with norovirus. Artists including Martina McBride and The Commodores have dropped out, leaving organisers frantically rearranging the running order like parents trying to salvage a school talent show after all the children suddenly develop stage fright. At this rate, the headline act will be a man called Barry who owns a leaf blower and insists it “counts as music if you stand far enough away.”

Meanwhile, in the land of celebrity romance, Dua Lipa has married actor Callum Turner in what’s being described as a “surprise low‑key wedding,” which is showbiz shorthand for “nobody managed to leak it in time.” Apparently the ceremony was so understated that even the flowers didn’t realise they were part of it. I imagine the vows were whispered, the rings were handed over in a napkin, and the entire event lasted roughly the same amount of time as ordering a latte. Still, it’s refreshing to see a celebrity wedding that doesn’t involve a drone fleet, a 200‑page exclusive, or a dress that requires its own scaffolding licence.

Back in London’s West End, Olivier Award winning actress Rosamund Pike paused her play Inter Alia to call out an audience member for texting. This is the theatrical equivalent of being caught eating crisps during a eulogy. Pike reportedly delivered the reprimand with the serene menace of a woman who has absolutely no intention of letting someone’s WhatsApp group chat derail her performance. Somewhere in the darkness, a guilty theatregoer attempted to sink into their seat like a meerkat retreating into its burrow, praying their phone wouldn’t vibrate and betray them further.

Elsewhere, hundreds of Marilyn Monroe lookalikes gathered to celebrate what would have been her 100th birthday. Imagine an entire street filled with identical platinum blondes in white dresses, all trying not to stand over a ventilation grate. It must have looked like a cloning experiment conducted by someone who only had access to 1950s glamour magazines. I sincerely hope someone organised them into a flash mob, because nothing says “Happy Birthday, Marilyn” like a hundred people breathily singing Happy Birthday, Mr President while confusing passing motorists who briefly wonder if they’ve slipped into a parallel universe.

In broadcasting news, the legendary Bob Harris is stepping down from Radio 2 after 56 years on air. Fifty‑six years. That’s longer than most marriages, several governments, and at least two major hairstyles. Harris has been on the radio so long that early listeners probably tuned in using equipment powered by coal. His voice has become such a fixture of British life that removing it feels like taking down a lighthouse: technically possible, but emotionally irresponsible.

And finally this week, in a triumph of national priorities, fans of Dad’s Army have raised £10,500 to repair L/Cpl Jones’s butcher’s van, a Fordson BB that has become a prized exhibit at the Dad’s Army Museum in Thetford. This is possibly the most magnificently British thing to happen all year. Only here would people unite not to fix infrastructure or support public services, but to restore a fictional butcher’s van from a sitcom made half a century ago. And frankly, I admire it. If anything deserves preservation, it’s the vehicle that once transported the nation’s favourite platoon of well‑meaning incompetents.