This Boring show

In fairness I don’t watch television but having seen clips of the programme, I cannot understand why Phillip Schofield falling out with co-presenter, Holly Willoughby, made such waves. The two presenters were supposedly great chums until Holly got fed up with the silver-haired older Schofield who has had a string of dramas attached to his name in recent times. First, he decided to come out as gay in true luvvie fashion live on the programme, with tears coursing his cheeks. A gay friend of mine in London described it as horrible and toe-curling. Having seen the clip, I’m with him all the way. Then, some months ago, both Schofield and Willoughby were accused of using their privileged celebrity to sneak into Westminster Hall to see the Queen lying-in-state while thousands of Britons queued for hours in the rain and cold. I have no idea whether this was true or not, but it did appear highly suspect.

While the row raged across social media with calls for both presenters to be fired, a froideur enveloped the two former friends and both began to protect their own careers, using rival PR companies to depict each in a good light. The final blow came when Schofield’s brother received a lengthy sentence for sexual abuse of a minor. This, of course, was nothing to do with his brother, Phillip, but it’s a fickle old world and mud sticks fast to those in the nearby vicinity. Holly distanced herself from Phillip and his brother’s scandal and it became obvious that she wanted to paddle her own canoe or share it with a brand new, less controversial buddy.

Phillip Schofield has now seemingly been persuaded to leave the show after many years, meaning that newspapers in the UK will hopefully begin to report once again on, er, real news. It must be horrid to find that you’re cast out in the cold from the programme and team that were part of your life for so long but showbiz is brittle and celebrities will go to great lengths to protect their reputations and future prospects. No one was prepared to be dragged down to the depths with poor old Schofield. On a positive, he’s had a lucky and long career and will leave the show with a golden handshake, knowing that bosses are tied to offering him other presenting work in an apparent deal. A pariah maybe, but he won’t go hungry.

Turkey tantrums

I am forever hearing about women who go to Turkey for cheap bottom lifts, tummy tucks, nose jobs and facelifts and come a cropper. They rage and moan to the media but why are they so surprised? There’s a very real reason why these procedures are a fraction of the cost of those in the UK and other European countries. Many of these women return with horribly botched work that needs to be corrected while others are scarred for life with the effects of procedures that cannot be reversed. A few unfortunates have even died on the operating slab or become fatally infected post op. With all the negative media coverage doing the rounds, you’d think fewer would take the risk but seemingly not. Just this week I heard of two more cases of British women flitting off to have stomach tucks in Turkey. I sincerely hope they have chosen their clinics wisely.

Sad end for an old Kangaroo

Rolf Harris, Australian painter, singer-songwriter and TV presenter has died at the grand old age of 93. He had an ignominious end, having been released from prison to live out his final years in his British home with his ailing elderly wife. Harris was very ill with diabetes and cancer in the last moments of life and had few friends. It is a sad story given how popular the man was in his youth and middle years. A favourite with children and parents everywhere, he was an adored TV presenter and his songs such as Two Little Boys, brought a tear to the eye. As a young child, I used to love watching Harris when I was permitted to indulge in TV. He was a hugely talented artist too and it was spellbinding to see how quickly he could create a picture from scratch. I suppose his sorry tale should remind us all that no one is above the law, and that celebrity is but a fickle and fleeting friend.

Party fever

My Scotsman hit a big birthday milestone, not a millstone, as he put it, last week. I had decided to hold a secret party here in our garden in Soller for local close friends and some from further afield. It took a great deal of planning and I had a few kind partners in crime to offer moral support. Modestly, I at first hit on about 40 guests but with family members and Palma based friends, this grew to 60. At this point I decided that I’d have to put a cap on further invites. Frankly, I could have gone on but I was operating alone and had to think of catering and how many seats I might realistically have for guests. Between my cooking, a local caterer and my favourite takeaway shop in town, the huge kitchen table was groaning. I hired a Mallorcan contact to help with serving and drinks. She rolled her eyes at the amount of food. We’d never get through it all, she remarked, dreaming of a possible doggie bag for the way home.

As it happened, and despite a few people crying off with colds and lack of transport, more than 80 guests turned up. It was rather like feeding the five thousand and how pleased I was to have over catered. As one friend remarked, half of Soller appeared to be at the event and the guests included all ages and nationalities. The magnificent cake, created on a horticultural theme, was so beautiful that it hurt to cut into it. The wonderful Sabores y Colores bakery cum catering company in La Huerta in Soller, run by the talented Macarena, did me proud and her cake making skills are now legendary. As a certain Terminator once said: I’ll be back.