- Bank – Central Line
- Piccadilly – Bakerloo Line
- Embankent – Northern Line, northbound
After last year’s break, the mother of all festivals is upon us again. Glastonbury is currently in full swing and it appears that The Rolling Stones made quite the impact last night.
Festival organiser’ Michael Eavis’ long standing dream finally materialised when he got The Stones to appear on the Pyramid stage. He has been quoted as saying that their Glastonbury debut was ‘the high spot of the festival in 43 years’.
Fees for the most expensive band on earth have not been disclosed, but who cares, it is after all about the music – or is it?
Well, it’s not totally clear anymore what Glastonbury is all about these days. Sure, we know that music is still the main reason for the 135.000 revellers to suffer through the mud and madness of the event and flock to Somerset to see the hundreds of bands appear on the many stages dotted across the farmland.
The atmosphere has been described as incredible and unique in its genre. In all these years, nobody has ever said anything but that
Having said that, there is no denying that in the past decades, Glastonbury, has turned into an elite festival where music for the masses has been replaced with music for the certain classes.
At £205 per ticket for a four days’ event (+ £5 booking fee per ticket + £6 P&P), and factoring in the cost of trains and coaches to and from, car parking, food and drinks on the grounds, it’s not exactly like people living on the breadline will be able to partake in the annual musical feast. The cost for a couple going to Glastonbury would be around £600 to £700 – minimum. Needless to say that for this amount, you could spend a week abroad in the sun and still have money left for the duty free shop upon returning home. Then again, you won’t get to see the best music around (minus Rita Ora and the Mumford lot) whilst slapping on coconut oil on a Spanish costa.
For the rich, richer and very rich, there is also the option to stay clear from the hoi polloi. They can for instance hire a tipi (a more luxurious tent but one where any comfort must be brought in from home) at £950 for the duration of the festival. Also for hire are the opulent yurts, which are all dressed up with Egyptian bed linen, side boards and candles and can be yours for around £3000. Mick Jagger slept in a yurt. But even though Mr Jagger’s bank account rises up to the moon, he still didn’t stretch himself all the way like the Rooneys did by hiring a £6000 Winnebago. Wayne and Coleen Rooney, who arrived by helicopter to the festival (well it’s only natural) also treated their friends to £3500 podules: boutique style hotel rooms on the grounds.
That just shows you, even festivals allow people to demonstrate wealth and prestige.
But it’s not only the cost and expenses that have changed when it comes to festivals as these days, you can find cash points, mobile charging docks, weird and wonderful shops, food stalls offering world cuisine and delicacies, and you can drink complex cocktails and expensive champagnes. I remember the time where a shower on the festival ground was the epitome of luxury and if a food stall sold falafels, you were shouting out to everyone how wordily festivals had become.
Then of course, beside the implementation of great amenities, you also have the transformation of the festival goer.
Where once people wore their old rags, ransacked boots and didn’t shy away from wrapping bin liners around their bodies, the festival fashion du jour has taken a life of its own. People go to great lengths to make themselves look ‘festival worthy’. A lot of them, spending a lot of money and effort on their outfits. As, if it’s not you, someone else will be taking thousands of pictures, so better arrange great looking memories by dressing appropriately for the event. Celebrities in particular consider Glastonbury to be a muddy catwalk where one can parade their carefully selected outfits on whilst blowing some cool wind into their never-stopping P.R. machine.
Like with the ‘Oscars’, the media happily indulges in the festival phenomena too by releasing worst and best fashion lists. From the Towies to the Credible Celebs, every single piece of garment they wear will be scrutinised and rated.
Most people however, look more or less the same in their originality. There are thousands of cut-off jeans, stringy cardigans, floppy hats, military jackets, flower arrangements in the hair and of course, a festival cannot be attended without a pair of ‘Hunter’ wellies. In fact, looking at all the pictures of this weekend, it’s almost like Glastonbury has become one extended advertisement for these Wellington boot creators.
But yes, no attention-craving celebrity will miss out on the chance to doll themselves up in festival wear with the eye on feeding their pictures straight into their Twitter account, showing their fans and followers how cool they really are – even when in reality, they wear prom dresses to work. Like Katherine Jenkins for instance. I am sure the girl likes her music, but observing the way she portrays herself on Glastonbury this year, (the obligatory cut offs and flowers in the hair) it is clear to me that she studied the festival fashion guide to pick out the right garments to shine. She went for navy blue Hunter boots by the way. It matched the rest of her blue outfit.
When I saw Coleen Rooney pictured online, a little red Chanel bag strapped over her shoulder, I knew that festivals as we once knew them, were a thing of the unsanitary past. I didn’t even consider the helicopter or £6000 Winnebago, that red bag nevertheless made me see clear on the subject. The rebellious, ‘whatever’ mentality that prevailed back in the days, have once and for all been replaced by something a little bit too orchestrated for me. That bag just said it all.
Glastonbury, I believe it’s still about the music, of course, how can it not be? But – observing cost, flaunting of wares and blatant extravaganza, we have to accept that this festival, along side with the type of holidays we take, the class we fly or brand of car we drive, has become yet another symbol of status.
It’s not all bad though, Glastonbury remains the best there is out there when it comes to festivals and line-ups. And, even if the hippie-ethics which were the original foundations for the festival, are no longer in place, to this day Glastonbury donates most of its profits to charities – which I think is admirable.
For me, it will always be about the music and I don’t care so much for plastic flowers in my hair but one final thought I have is that despite the recession, people are still willing to fork out so much money for music. Even if for some of them, parting with their cash will result in sitting in front of their tent whilst pouting into the camera of their mobile phones – for the whole four days. At least, the world will know they were there and you can’t beat Glastonbury when it comes to location supremo. Cooler than that, you probably won’t get and it will always remain an item to tick off on the bucket list.
But for those who prefer a mud-free environment and a short walk to refreshments, snacks and shower, do like me: press the red button on your tv, stretch your legs on the coffee table and indulge in the best spectacle on earth – from the comfort of your sofa that is.
A great idea, if it had not been for that team being so ignorant about the age group they intended to target. The commercial and barely finished website they created for the task, made it look like the 50-plus generation were one big geriatric yawn. The cringing promo filmed in dull decors, featured an older couple whose crotch appeared to have been ‘Barbified’ for the event – all smooth surfaces, and lobotomised of any carnal desire.
The young, vibrant and mostly stupid gave us an impression of what they believed the older generation were all about: boring people with an inane grin cemented onto their faces, lacking any fashionable style – extinct genitalia thrown into the sombre mix. Their vision of a love affair for over 50’s was a sterilised one. Even Lord Sugar seemed offended by the patronising portrayal of their online dating venture. And so were his sidekicks; ‘Lizard King’ Nick Hewer and ‘Silent Hatchet’ Karren Brady. Watching this sad spectacle, I was also vexed – and I am 40.
As, what I see around me these days when it comes to the ‘older’ generation is an image vastly different to the one of my childhood. In fact, when I was a child in Ghent, people over 60 were considered old. I am sure that this vision was clouded with the harsh innocence of youth – nevertheless most will agree that people in those days appeared to look older than they actually were, whether in Belgium or here in the UK. Compared to now at least.
It was partially due to the way they dressed: older women wore apron-style dresses with a wall-coloured coat on top and these ladies would never venture outside without a scarf wrapped around their pastels-rinsed bouffants. Older men were often seen in colours matching soil and sand, their hairstyle kept short, usually covered by a flat cap. It was extremely rare to see a fashionable, young-looking older person back then when this is practically the norm these days.
But to me, it’s not that long ago that older people, looked like, well old people. It was just so much easier then to say such and such is old. The image gave it away but so did their stilted behaviour. Theirs was a world of clear set boundaries and very few would step outside of this confined space. If they did, they would be referred to as being ‘eccentric’.
In my younger days, I cannot recall the 50-60-70-plus and older undertaking adventurous travelling, getting tattoos and rocking it up so much at a gig, it makes the younger ones look like they are at a tea dance. Obviously, this won’t be everyone’s idea of fun, but the option is there without having to think: can I still?
Thankfully this is how it is now, but only a few decades ago, once you moved up to an older age box, it was as if life as you had always known it got archived whilst a new manual was provided stipulating the code of conduct befitting a senior status more.
But maybe things were different indoors or amongst themselves, it’s just that we never really got to see this. Perhaps it was a case of nobody noticing the older generation that much as even so the middle-aged and elderly were in the majority in Belgium, most of the time, theirs was an invisible group.
Now, we’ve got an ‘older’ generation, the baby boomers, a great number of them looking absolutely amazing. This generation will sport eclectic hairstyles, wear Converse shoes or highly sexed stilettos and at times live through more exciting days than the generations below them.
Of course, you need to factor in the fact that the baby boomers have more disposable cash than their parents ever had, and for sure they will have led exciting and interesting lives before turning a certain age – so why stop now?
Such is the appeal of the electrifying baby boom generation that retailers are finally starting to realise the potential of marketing their brands to them as much as they once did to the treasured 18 to 34-year old demographic. As a matter of fact, the 18 to 34-year olds are pretty much broke these days, and unemployment in this age group is high. It would therefore not surprise me if in the near future, we will get to see a lot more advertisements starring mature men and women, flocking products far removed from denture adhesives and incontinence pads. In the last years we’ve had Paul McCartney, Helen Mirren and Samuel L. Jackson, both well over 60-years old, promoting iPods, iPads and iPhones respectively.
With all this bon-vivant spirit going on in this age group, it is understandable how some resort to potions and plastic surgery. The exterior may just be ever so slightly corroded but the need to correct this in order to match the blazing energy inside, is something I find only normal.
Naturally, some go too far in their quest of keeping up with the young and end up looking overstretched, a creature nor lamb or mutton. That said, if it makes a person feel better, why not?
Last Thursday, I went to see Iggy & The Stooges again and was amazed at the spectacle 66-year old Iggy delivered on stage. He struck me as being even more energetic than when I saw him in Hammersmith in 2010. The songs were delivered in his great punk-rocker style and as always, he crawled on all fours over the stage whilst singing ‘I Wanna Be Your Dog’, accentuating every muscle embroidered on his naked torso in the process. I don’t think there was a single person in the audience who thought: you old man, just put it away.
It’s the same for my parents. Well, it’s not that they climb on stage singing Cock In My Pocket but like Iggy Pop, they don’t consider age. I even think at times, they forget how old they are and continue with life as they’ve always known it. My mum is 61, listens mainly to Leonard Cohen, Queen and Daft Punk (the old Daft Punk, she hates the new album ‘far too commercial’), she wears long boots over her skinny jeans and is a social media fanatic. I wouldn’t expect anything else, she has always loved music, fashion and a life of discovery.
My 68-year old dad is like a man on rocket fuel, skipping through life, always dressed in an almost ‘cool student’ style and through gritted teeth appears to call everyone who annoys him: an old fart. Sometimes the object of his ageist sneering is much younger than him. As such, my mum has to often remind him that the person he is calling an old fart. is most likely 10 years younger than he is. My dad never seems to care, he doesn’t see himself as an older man anyway.
The guys and she-devils of the Apprentice didn’t grasp the fact that the middle-aged and over were in fact just like them, only a lot wiser and hopefully with more money at their disposal. One of the girls, Luisa (mean and clueless = dangerous combination) proclaimed that she could totally not relate to this age group – at all. She made it sound like the 50-plus group were not made out of the same cloth as her and had been bred somewhere in outer space. Nick Hewer who is 69, described their work as ‘mumsy’ and ‘cosy’.
“This is my age group,’ he commented. “I would run a mile.”
I guess it is something which gives hope, the reassuring feeling that all will be okay later in life. There is no mandatory manual to follow any longer, and I am sure the fun I am having now, will still be happening in 10-20 years time and hopefully much longer. I realise that like my parents, I may forget my age at some point, though I also know for fact that the youth, despite seeing the outfits, the style and such zest for life of the older generation, probably never will. But when I think about it, it has always been a little bit like that. It’s one of these things that comes with time, the realisation that the older you get, the more you accept that age is nothing but that cliché of a saying.
Following tradition of celebrities naming their children after a place of conception or any other random thing, being the people they are, it just had to be ludicrous. And they didn’t disappoint.
The parents may believe they’ve invented the Internet all over again by giving the tot such ridiculous name (he probably had a Eureka moment, high-fived himself and considered this to be another great deed of his own divine holiness – I am Yeezus! No you are a bloody idiot, now go away) but the reality is, for the rest of its life, that child will be referred to as what is an intercardinal point on a compass.
I did not want to be rude in Starbucks a while ago, but I guess it came out in an abrupt fashion, even when I had tried to soften the blow by throwing in a cackle of giggles at the end of my sentence.
Of course, it was not because of this new thing at Starbucks, where your name is asked upon ordering your cup of choice.
Though, I must say that I am not a fan of this Starbucks name request thing. I could perhaps understand it more if we’re talking about a huge branch where lots of people are waiting for their coffee but my local branch is as big as a phone box and aside from the moody baristas, it’s usually empty. And – it’s just odd to walk around with a name tag in your hands.
So I don’t see the point of sharing my credentials with them. As such, I tend to give a fake name. Thanks to Starbucks I have been a Lucy, a Marilyn, and a Marie-Antoinette, the last one causing a little headache as they demanded me to spell it. I told them to call me Coco instead.
Drifting off as always – what happened in there which caused my mood to burst, was that I got irritated with the barista’s attempt to scratch through my surface.
As , when he handed me my cup of Espresso Macchiato over, his eyes darted over my face. Inspecting and ready to process.
‘Where are you from?’, he asked.
‘Belgium,’ I answered.
‘No, I mean, where are you REALLY from?’
‘Ghent,’ I answered, knowing very well where this was leading to.
‘Seriously, I mean what is your origin? You don’t look Belgian,’ His voice sounded a little irritated.
I answered Mars, did that giggle thing, grabbed my coffee and walked out of the coffee shop.
He seemed dumbstruck but I couldn’t care less.
You see, I never understood this scrutinising of genetics. I don’t see why someone needs to know the exact origin of a person, as does it really matter? It just feels that sometimes, people get annoyed with you when you tell them one thing when they expect the other. As if they want to assert your value this way. Trust me, people usually do not ask the ‘true origins’ out of simple curiosity. Though most of the times it’s just plain ignorance.
Of course, I am not ashamed of my origins, on the contrary. It’s just that i don’t see the point in explaining my medium-sized Maghreb looks. Particularly as I am not that very familiar with the Arab culture myself. Their way of living is at times as foreign to me as it is for the one enquiring about it.
My father is Algerian, my mother a mixture of Belgian, French, German, Spanish – and Jewish. I probably have the moonlike face, dark brown eyes and hair of a Berber whilst I have the European features of my mum.
My childhood felt cosmopolitan, living in the city centre, with two young, liberal parents who loved travelling, art and books. There was no religion as both are atheists and we spoke French when it was the three of us and when I was alone with my mum, I spoke Dutch.
I never learned to speak Arab, my dad didn’t think it was necessary. The only thing that reminded me of Algeria was the great Arab food my dad would make from time to time but there was never pork, as that was banned. My mum would nevertheless have it, my dad didn’t care if she did and I would eat salami and ham with her whenever he wasn’t around – my dad just didn’t want to know about it.
I feel a little bit Arab, a lot more Belgian but I see myself as a Londoner by now.
But it is very rare to get asked what your ‘real’ roots are in London. Most people are from somewhere else and if you tell them what your nationality is, they will just accept and not probe deeper. I would even say it is considered rude to do so.
I do nonetheless accept that there will always be people asking you the ‘really really from’ question because they simply want to know -without afterthoughts.
They might themselves be from there or know someone and are just trying to match your features to the ones they recognise.
You develop a radar to separate these people from the ignorant, enquiring ones. Perhaps, my experiences back home in Belgium, have made me more touchy about this, who knows – but more on this later.
That said, as soon as I arrived in London, I straight away got confirmation that this is not the best question to ask someone.
On my third day here, I found a temping job in a soul destroying place, a printing company in Elephant & Castle.
The place and work itself was dreadful but the people were fun. We had to walk around a huge table with piles of pages on top of it. Our job was to collect page after page, to finally bundle it into a book. There were six of us, a few South Africans, an Australian, a French girl and me.
We were all chatting away, lots of ‘Why are you here?’, whilst doing the merry-go-round and picking up the pages off the table, when one of the South African guys asked the French girl THE question.
‘France,’ she answered.
He seemed puzzled by her answer.
‘You must be from somewhere else, you’re black!’
I looked at her and saw her face crumpling up in discontentment.
‘Born and raised in France – because I am French, yeah?’
Still not satisfied with her answer, he asked her whether she was ashamed about her true origins.
The girl positioned herself in front of him and said: ‘look, I am French, my parents are from Guadeloupe but I was born in Paris and have always lived there. Guadeloupe, as your ignorant little brain may not realise it, is part of France so really, that makes me double French.’
He laughed and said: ‘I don’t think so no, you just got lucky I guess.’
And she exploded, grabbed a pile of papers from the table and threw it at him. Then she grabbed some more and tried to hit his face this time but missed again.
Her reaction was completely over the top but at the same time, it confirmed that I had been right all along to feel weird about people delving deeper to find my hidden roots.
As years ago, when Belgium was a lot more ignorant than it is now, I would go into, say, a shop, to see the cashier ask me in slow-motion, lips stretched to the limit to enable the exaggerated pronunciation to follow:
‘Do – you – speak – Dutch?’
‘Of course I do,’ I would say in my best TV-Dutch. Usually adding I spoke fluent French, English and German as well. I lied about the Geman but it wasn’t like I was going to become friends with them anyway.
‘So where are you from then?’
I would tell them I was Belgian, which was true but their response would most likely be: ‘c’mon, you don’t look like you’re Belgian, what’s your REAL nationality?’
Naturally, I always felt offended, their tone did not suggest simple curiosity. It was a mixture of disdain and perhaps yes, a little curiosity but one of the inquisitive type. There was always a hint of third degree about it.
Being born in Belgium and having lived a similar life to them, I didn’t like being pigeonholed as something that I didn’t really feel myself.
And I am sure there are millions of people like me, not ashamed of our origins but feeling more like the nationality we’ve got stamped on our passport than the one that is supposed to flow through our veins.
In the case of the French girl in Elephant & Castle, her blood was French, mine is partially Belgian, the South African guy however, if you think about it, had zero South African blood. It’s something the French girl missed to ask him. A white man born and bred in South Africa, surely his ancestors must be from somewhere else? It’s one of these situations where you think: how I wish I could have reciprocated. If only I could turn back the clock with 15 years so I could ask him where he was ‘really really’ from.
Oh Germany? I love black forrest gateau! How do you find life in South Africa? Spitze?’
From one featherbrain to another, oh the laughs we would have had.
Fifteen years on, I can happily say that I’ve barely been asked THE question in London, so the Starbucks situation came a bit as a shock.
Oh I’ve had people asking me: are you Morroccon, Turkish, Greek, Italian, French, Spanish, Iranian maybe? But I don’t mind that, it’s just curiosity. Like people wondering about my accent.
The ‘really really from’ question, there is no need for it. If someone provided you a nationality, just go with it and don’t start interrogating them further.
Can you imagine asking every Australian or American for instance? And what about Asians in the UK who’ve lived here for generations too?
But Londoners, I think, are cool about that and not in the slightest bothered. Belgium, thankfully, has changed so much since I’ve left and I haven’t had anyone asking me the question again.
The Starbucks barista, I don’t know where he is from. He had an accent, that I know. I’ve been back since and he’s called me the woman from Mars, though he hasn’t tried to shake the family tree again.
Maybe he is going to think twice before asking someone why their skin is darker than the stipulated colour on the Nationality Colour Chart.
And if it hasn’t clicked yet, one can only assume that he’ll get more disgruntled people giving him the eye and the huff.
Oh and last time I went into that Starbucks, I gave my name as Zhang Wei. They didn’t flinch.
Yesterday, I was shocked to see the pictures of TV chef Nigella Lawson in the news. The ones where Charles Saatchi, her husband of ten years, put his hands around her throat and pinched her nose – and which showed the utter terror on Nigella’s face.
The way she looked at him was like an abused child would look at its violent parents, never giving up on their quest for unconditional love. I found it frankly haunting.
The audacity of that man is stupefying. The fact he’s done this in public, in such nonchalant fashion, seems to strike me that this is nothing out of the ordinary for him.
I was also shocked to find out what else happened in there. Or to be more precise, what did not happen.
As reading up on the incident at Scott’s, a high-end restaurant in Mayfair, I found that no one, including the staff, tried to help that poor woman.
Neither did the paparazzi who took and then sold the pictures on to a tabloid – but that was to be expected from a celebrity stalker sans scruples.
The spokesperson of the restaurant stated: ‘we do not comment on the private affairs of clients.’
And the diners, they just gawped or continued with their meal, as if nothing happened. Then of course, there were the ones who felt the need to capture the scene on camera.
That, I found revolting and inhumane. Sure, sitting there was a famous person having lunch with her husband but at the same time there was also a scared woman being physically abused by that same man. Still whether the diners were amazed at seeing a celebrity eat or whether they were transfixed by the torment she had to endure, they should not have taken this up as a valid reason to point and shoot at her.
What happened yesterday proves yet again how the masses have turned into voyeurs, prepared to banish any empathy if it allows them to raise their Twitter profile or enables them to trend.
These days, gaining followers or getting that scoop, could be as big an ambition for some as it is for others to get that house on the lake.
It’s hard for me to grasp how these people can observe cruelty yet don’t believe it’s necessary to help the person in distress.
Instead they’ll whip out the phone, ready for camera-light-action.
It’s something I see more and more and I have written about it a few times already. One thing is, I will never get used to the imagery of seeing someone in clear need for help, to then see some idiots film or photograph the whole thing.
I realise that most of us have this burning desire to report big news to others, hoping to be the first one to do so. I am like that too and when I catch something important and tell others who in turn tell me they already know about it, I can’t but feel disappointed.
And, sometimes, being able to capture a drama developing in front of our eyes, can be a good thing too. Like last year, when that racist woman went berserk on the train and spat her xenophobic bile onto a fellow traveller. Luckily she got arrested in the end and that was thanks to someone filming the incident.
I also think that in some ways, the paparazzi, may have helped Nigella by exposing the potential domestic abuse she has been suffering behind closed doors.
Though, it makes you wonder, why did the filming person on the train not put his/her phone away to assist the victim who was being verbally abused? And what about the paparazzi, he could have helped too, no? I guess for him, his working day was finished once he filled up his digital card with more than he had bargained for.
Isn’t it though that if you see someone in clear need for help, you help? And if you can’t manage yourself, you get help? I thought this was always the rule.
Recently however, the abundance of technology has allowed abscesses to grow on today’s society, their poison twisting perceptions and re-defining some of the rules we got accustomed to. It may have changed our character too.
Our altruistic nature, slowly replaced by an attention-seeking, soulless and scoop-snagging freak. Not everyone will turn into such media monster of course, but the ones who do, will ruin it for the rest.
So how much more apathy towards our surroundings will we develop in years to come and what will be the result? Will we at some point, choose an image over a life?
It is possible. I just have to think about the accident on the New York subway last year, to realise we’re practically there.
The harrowing image of a man trying to drag himself back onto the platform after he had been pushed on the tracks, was beamed around the world.
The picture was taken by a reporter from the New York Post who happened to be on the subway platform. Moments later, the train rolled in.
His excuse for photographing someone seconds away from death was: ‘I wanted to warn the approaching train by using my flash’.
For me, his excuse was pathetic. I’d like to believe that every normal thinking person would run to the edge of the platform to try and pull the man up to safety. He didn’t and chose to become the news instead.
It cost a man’s life but what is this compared to crawling out of obscurity and being known by millions of people? Even if that claim to fame is the result of showing death in the face.
Obviously most who heard about the subway tragedy, reacted with disgust but I am sure that should the opportunity presents itself again one day, several amongst us wouldn’t hesitate to do what the reporter did.
There is however no denying that there are people who genuinely freeze up when confronted with a perplexing situation. It’s something beyond their control.
It seems that these days, whoever claims they don’t know why there were watching, they just froze in place, still managed to point their camera in the right direction.
Today, Mr Saatchi has announced that the photos showed a couple having a playful tiff.
As such, we can all assume this is why Nigella ran out of the restaurant crying then. Their fun and games ultimately resulting in a playful finale – with racking sobs for effect. Oh how wonderful it is to joke around.
The thing is, if it had been a ‘playful tiff’, no one around them would have been aware of their penchant for sinister role playing and as such, they should have intervened no matter what. Not just sit there, watching, snapping away, uploading the pictures on a social site with caption: ‘Nigella Lawson is getting strangled here at Scott’s! :- ( ‘
I hope they’re ashamed now, the diners, the restaurant staff, though I have no hope for the paparazzi. Some I am sure, will feel remorseful for not reaching out when they should have.
Though, there will be others who will browse through their cherished pictures and feel privileged they were in the right place at the right moment, full battery and all.
They’ll be dining out on this for years to come. And – they’ve got the pictures, the retweets and the obvious absence of a philanthropic gene to show for.
When it comes to Nigella, I hope she is okay and that she hasn’t become disillusioned, not only with her husband and her relationship but also with the ones who believe that life is nothing but a zoo.