I just have to share something new and genuinely exciting — and trust me, you absolutely do not have to be vegan to enjoy this plant-based treat. I first tried it at the Vegan Women’s Club, casually spooned it onto something sweet, and by the end of the evening I was already plotting how to get more. Yes… vegan honey.
Before you ask — “Tell em about the honey mummy !” — let me say this straight away: this is a sexy little number, and once you try it, you’ll understand exactly what I mean. Nothing to do with the the Honey Monster or the serial.
Bee Kind is a newly launched, plant-based alternative to honey that’s already creating serious buzz around the world. Crafted in small batches, Bee Kind is made from pine needles using traditional infusion methods that recreate the taste, sweetness, and mouthfeel of conventional honey — without harming a single bee. And astonishingly, it’s virtually indistinguishable from the real thing.
Available in Golden (Original), Creamed, and Horopito Chilli, Bee Kind delivers something for every palate. The Golden variety offers that familiar, comforting honey flavour we all know and love. The Creamed version has the same authentic taste but with a smooth, spreadable texture that feels luxuriously indulgent on toast or stirred through yoghurt. Then there’s the Horopito Chilli — a quietly confident blend of sweetness with a gentle, warming peppery kick inspired by the New Zealand pepper tree. It’s bold, unexpected, and utterly addictive.
What makes Bee Kind even more fascinating is its use of pine needles — an ingredient that has been consumed for centuries across many cultures and historically valued for its naturally occurring compounds. Bee Kind cleverly reimagines this heritage ingredient, transforming it into a modern, ethical alternative that feels both innovative and rooted in tradition.
There’s also a deeper story here. Commercial bee production often involves practices that place enormous stress on bees and are increasingly recognised as harmful. Bee Kind removes bees from the production process entirely, offering a more compassionate choice for those who want to enjoy honey-like sweetness without contributing to exploitation.
Despite being a recent launch, Bee Kind is already making serious waves internationally. Reviews have been glowing, and orders are coming in from as far afield as Israel, Dubai, and Belgium — clear proof that demand for thoughtful, plant-based alternatives is no longer niche but truly global.
Whether you’re vegan, plant-curious, or simply someone who appreciates good food made with integrity, Bee Kind is one of those discoveries that feels exciting to share. It’s indulgent without guilt, familiar yet refreshingly new — and once you’ve tried it, you’ll find yourself reaching for it again and again.
Bee Kind is available now via the Vegan Women’s Club, with an exclusive and generous discount for members. Consider yourself warned: one taste, and you may never look at honey the same way again. 🍯✨
I want to make one thing 120 per cent clear: I am absolutely in favour of physical self-improvement and anything that helps us feel good about ourselves, including anti-ageing treatments. After all, if your house starts to crumble or needs a repair, most of us don’t think twice about getting a tradesperson in to fix it. We patch, we paint, we renovate. So why should our faces, bodies, or confidence be treated any differently?
Fill your boots. Have the facial. Get the Botox. Try whatever makes you feel better when you look in the mirror. Confidence is attractive, and feeling good in your own skin can be genuinely life-enhancing. But—and this is the crucial bit—we also need to be careful. There’s a line where self-care quietly slips into obsession, and sometimes it isn’t your gorgeous face that needs work at all, but your mental health.
Age, after all, is just a number. Reaching 60 is not guaranteed. If you’re lucky enough to get there, rejoice—many don’t. Yet we live in a culture obsessed with youth, where growing older is treated as something faintly shameful rather than something earned. I constantly hear phrases like “age-appropriate dress” or “age-appropriate behaviour,” usually delivered with a raised eyebrow and a side-order of judgement.
Let’s be honest. If gravity has taken a firm grip and décolletage is mapped with red veins, tiny shorts and a boob tube probably won’t make you look younger—it’ll likely do the opposite. But equally, if you want to wear them, then shake it honey 🥾. Personal style should be about expression, not apology. Dressing “younger” doesn’t make you younger; dressing confidently makes you look alive.
What I genuinely struggle to understand is why so many people feel entitled to judge others for ageing gracefully. There’s a peculiar cruelty in sneering at someone who has chosen not to fight time with needles and fillers, as if dignity itself were an act of rebellion.
Take Rachel Ward, once heralded as one of the great beauties of the 1980s after her unforgettable role in The Thorn Birds. She could have spent decades trying to drag her face back to that era, chasing a frozen echo of her younger self. Instead, she chose something braver. She embraced her face in her sixties—lines, movement, expression intact—and looks refreshingly real. There’s no stiffness, no denial, just a face that tells a story. A face you want to know.
No frozen look here. Just confidence, character, and the quiet power of self-acceptance.
Perhaps that’s the real anti-ageing secret: not erasing who we’ve been, but owning who we are.
Re: The Beckhams
From “harmless mum dancing” to accusations of being overly controlling, the Beckhams have once again found themselves dominating headlines—at a time when the world is facing far graver realities. Bodies lie in the streets of Iran, conflicts rage across multiple countries, and yet we are invited to clutch our pearls over a family wobble involving a pop star, a dance floor, and a grown man with opinions.
Brooklyn Beckham, we’re told, had a tough childhood. Listen, pal—we all had to listen to your mum sing. Perspective is a wonderful thing.
But let’s be honest: no one truly knows what goes on behind those carefully curated, smiling family photographs. Families are complicated. Fame magnifies everything, distorts nuance, and turns private disagreements into public sport. Judging any family—famous or not—based on fragments and hearsay is a fool’s errand, and none of us are in possession of the full story.
What did give me pause, however, was DJ Fat Tony choosing to speak out. It was a paid gig. He was hired, did the job, and that should have been the end of it. Unless subpoenaed or dragged into court, discretion would have been the wiser—and classier—option. Airing opinions after the fact feels less like honesty and more like self-publicity. A whiff of Paul Burrell, if you will.
As for the rest of it, let’s calm down. If Victoria Beckham wants to dance in a way deemed “inappropriate” by the commentariat, someone could have gently steered her off the floor. It was hardly the crime of the century.
If anything, the whole saga has had the unintended consequence of resurrecting Victoria’s singing career—long thought buried—rising again like a bad smell. Some things, it seems, never stay dead.
Here’s hoping The Beckhams do what most families eventually manage: talk, regroup, and move on—preferably without the rest of us pretending it’s global news. However if mum or dad is nightmare I urge anyone to put boundaries down asap as it only gets worse .
I have a very soft spot for Winnie-the-Pooh. My former partner of twenty years used to call me Tigger, after the ever-bouncy tiger, and over the years he sent me affectionate cards featuring Pooh and friends. One of the last films we saw together was Winnie-the-Pooh, and we loved it—gentle, comforting, and quietly profound.
Pooh and his friends beautifully emulate life itself. Eeyore carries his depression with weary honesty; Tigger bounces through the world with unstoppable enthusiasm; Piglet worries; Owl pontificates; and Pooh simply is. There’s something deeply enchanting about a group of characters who mirror our own emotional landscapes so tenderly, without judgement or pretence.
Created by A. A. Milne, Pooh gives us permission to slow down. In a world increasingly obsessed with productivity, achievement, and noise, the bear of very little brain reminds us that gentleness is a strength. He values friendship over status, kindness over cleverness, and a good walk in the woods over almost everything else—except, perhaps, honey.
For many of us, Pooh arrives early in life, read aloud at bedtime, his world drawn in soft, timeless lines by E. H. Shepard. But he grows with us. As adults, we return to the Hundred Acre Wood and discover unexpected wisdom in its simplicity: that it’s all right not to have the answers, that listening matters, and that being present is often enough.
Pooh’s importance lies in his humanity. He reassures us that you don’t need to be extraordinary to be loved, and that friendship—steady, imperfect, and loyal—is what truly carries us through life.
One hundred years on, Winnie-the-Pooh still whispers the same gentle truth: sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart. 🍯💛
Other people’s issues. Martin and I had a beautiful relationship but there was always someone who had an issue with it . It may seem strange to start my story at the end of someone’s life to tell their tale. The remarkable Mr Annand was no ordinary man, so his journey should be told just as the curtain is about to fall on his extraordinary life, an existence that for most parts was never quite what it seemed to so many.
Mr Annand, or as we called him, Martin, looked up at me from the brown mobility chair, which he had become confined to during the day over the last few weeks of his life, his beautiful big blue eyes still reminding me of Jiminy Cricket from Pinocchio. Still full of hope, he smiled at me, pulled gently on my shirt and asked me to go and get a nice French bread stick – warm if possible – and some soup. He had been off his food for the last few days so it was a relief to hear him want something.
There was only one problem. We needed to hide the bread from Nicos, Martin’s Greek Cypriot trust fund civil partner, as gluten and bread were taboo in the soulless flat that they shared in trendy Bloomsbury. Though the wood and lighting were incredible, it resembled an art gallery with uncomfortable furniture. Nicos ruled the roost in this place and would become hysterical and cruel when not getting his own way. Even traditional cooking was banned for fear that it would cause damage to any of the many art works.
A splash of water, not wiped up from the sink tap, could cause a rage so powerful you would have thought you had flooded the flat.
Nicos had allowed me to take joint care of Martin with great reluctance; only after he had worked out the actual cost of private nurses did he reluctantly give in. At first it was only to be when Nicos was at cross fit for three hours a day, or when he had his own hospital appointments. However, the workload was constant and eventually I stayed there 24 hours a day, and for this I was grateful Nicos allowed me to do so as it was so painful not to be with Martin
It seemed odd to me: Nicos’ art collection in the UK and Cyprus had a value in the millions so if he had sold just one piece, it could have funded 24-hour private care. Martin always said that, despite Nicos’ wealth given to him by his father, he was incredibly tight.
Nicos had just left for a workout and was meeting a friend after. Dashing up Tottenham Court Road to M&S, I returned quickly with some of Martin’s favourite fruit jellies, two small warm bread flutes and heart-warming chicken noodle soup. Frantically I cut the bread up into small slices and buttered them cleaning up after myself for fear that crumbs would be found.
Martin Annand and Pam Sharrock and me in the South of France
The soup was being cooked in the microwave that was hidden so high up, cooking anything in it was a challenge. Even the kettle was in a cupboard to stop steam hitting any artwork that adorned the kitchen walls. Martin smiled as I brought it to him, “I am getting my appetite back”, he said, with some hope. Pointing out it was a good sign, I gave him a wink
. The man I had loved for forty years was dying and I was determined to keep my emotions in check and just be his rock. If I ever allowed the flood gates to open and show how I was feeling, my fear was that the tears would never stop, and that was the last thing he needed. Martin had a beautiful childlike quality that most people never got to see. He gave me a paw as I put the food down.
Of course, he only managed a little bread and some soup. Just as he was about to get me to take it away the door opened. Nicos was there. “All right my love, what’s that you have got there?” he enquired, with his eyes throwing daggers of steel towards me. Explaining that he really wanted a bread roll and some soup, strangely Nicos did not react, although I made a hasty retreat to the kitchen to discard the evidence out into the bin in the communal areas of the block.
There was only one flute of bread left by the side of the sink that was left to hide. Nicos had not gone to shower as he usually did on return from the gym and he was in the kitchen. To my amazement, he was cutting the spare French bread flute in to slices and covered them in strawberry Jam and organic Honey. Instinct told me to get out of the way to see Martin, and a wise decision it was.
Ten minutes later Nicos came charging down the wooden plank floors of the corridor towards the bathroom slamming the door. He spent twenty minutes in there inducing himself to vomit. Eventually he came out and marched up to Martin, shoving his hands that stunk of sick up into Martin’s pale face. “Look what you made me do bring that into our home!”
There was nothing I could do to stop Nicos. My heart often went out to him as he was so uncomfortable in his own body, I can only imagine what it must be like to wake up every day so unhappy in life. I do not think that I had ever seen him do a full day’s work in the twenty years I knew him. Martin wrote his correspondence for him, Nicos went for the odd meeting in Cyprus but for the most part, he went to the gym, shopped, attended gallery openings, and holidayed abroad a lot. What he devoted a lot of time to was sitting in judgement of other’s efforts, which he did with great ease. He really was the quintessential trust fund baby.
Though Nicos’ and my relationship made Joan’s and Bette’s look like an easy one, he always had the upper hand. At first I had liked him as he was amusing, witty and we shared many of the same interests. He clearly had huge mental health issues, so to take him on was a fruitless task and only caused issues with me seeing my ex-partner, Martin.
Over the years my radar went into no comment regarding his hatred of me, even during the campaign of daily phone text’s calling me every name you could imagine. Once he caught me off guard with the malicious comment, “No wonder your boyfriend killed himself and the latest is missing!” That text was a step too far and I threatened to call the police, although for the sake of Martin, we did eventually make up
. There was always someone who had an issue with my relationship with Martin. Nico’s just could not cope with the fact that Martin still loved me and him in different ways. It was not long before Nicos was in the kitchen and you could just tell he was looking for a fight. He was opening and closing drawers for no reasons when suddenly he spied a small amount of water that had escaped me whilst cleaning, next to the marble sink. That was it, he hit the roof. “YOU RESPECT THE QUALITY OF NOTHING!” he bellowed behind me as I made my excuses to Martin and decided to spend one night at my home let Nicos calm down. When an apologetic text from Nicos did come through, I told him all was fine.
Returning the next day at 6:30 I found there were two patients in bed: Nicos had piles and might need to go the hospital, possibly for four days. Nicos had fired four of the helpers the NHS had sent us. Looking after Martin really needed two, but the idea of spending some time with him was a relief to me. In the end Nicos just went to a specialist. Looking after Martin was not the hard part, though it was breaking my heart every day. Dealing with Nico’s, who was devious and underhand, was horrendous. He seemed obsessed with my every move.
However if you think he sounded bad, nothing could prepare you for his sidekick we will call “The Cousin”. A woman as equally uncomfortable in her own skin as Nicos, Martin had only known her for five years. On the face of it she seemed nice, with an air of the teacher about her. Nicos had decided that she was Martin’s replacement sister, as the relationship with his own sister Pen had become strained over the years due to her dominating girlfriend. Martin ‘just loved her’, Nicos would inform me with some command. Martin, though fond of her, did not see her that way.
She was a walking nightmare and expert on everything to do with cancer. My first hint that she needed to be stopped was when Martin called me telling she was trying to roll a tennis ball up and down his spine. Luckily, I got there in time to challenge her and that went down like a lead balloon.
The cousin had a habit of putting her hand up like she was teaching at school. I did not want Martin doing those exercise she was trying to make him do and reiterated that he had spinal cancer so his specialist would need to approve any exercise. If she was teaching or instructing, she was fine. Nicos went away for two weeks and left me with Martin. The Cousin started coming over bringing lots of sugary desserts, all well-meaning but not good for cancer and definitely not to Martin’s taste. It seemed well meaning so Martin would smile and say, “Save for later, yummy!” I would chuck them in the bin as soon as she left.
The first time she came over was to give me an hour off. Martin asked me to call and cancel her, he would be fine, but I felt it would be rude to do so, and if she did come, it would pacify Nicos and assure him that everything was ok. Politely, I thanked her for coming. “I was coming whether you wanted it or not”, she replied, with the coldness of a witch at midnight. “Nicos and I have a plan for Martin, so don’t you worry yourself”, she went on. People must have wondered why I did not tell her to go F— herself. Instead, I hid the various things she brought to roll on Martin. The last thing Martin needed was her exercises that still needed to be approved by a professional.
We nearly had words when she waltzed in all sweetness and light with more desserts. With her empathetic face she asked, “Anything I can do to help?” For once I was happy to oblige, asking if she minded making Martin’s bed. Her face fell as what she really had meant was if there was anything she could teach or instruct. Her face perked up as she replied, “I will teach you how to do it.” Of course, I declined.
There was zero empathy from Nicos when I explained Martin was not as keen on her visits as he thought. But more important please could he supervise her teaching exercises as she had zero experience. Having breast cancer did not make you an expert on all cancers. Nicos hollered, “She is like a sister to him!” Nicos had ostracised most of Martin’s close friends and substituted them with ones he approved of over the years they were together.
We were told by the nurse visiting Martin that under NO circumstances should he make any financial, work related or personal decisions at this stage. It became incredibly difficult to handle the Cousin and Nicos, as no matter what I suggested, it was wrong. Dr Prakash who had helped Martin with his injections and treated him privately for free was branded an idiot, whereas the cousin, who really needed locking up, was always right whatever she said.
To this day it is my belief that she helped speed the cancer up. I grieved for Martin deeply. When one considers grief, it is foremost for the person you have lost. You could not begin to comprehend how grief magnifies when also confronted with two such devious, plotting malcontents, whose subsequent aim was to erase me from Martin’s eulogy along with any memories we shared. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Apart from a lunch with my dear friend Marieanne, I had been there with Martin for twenty four hours. However I had a doctor’s appointment that I could not miss, but the whole thing would take only four hours tops. Warning signs should have flagged in my brain as the pair seemed unusually enthusiastic about this and confirmed several times that I was still going. Despite the warning given by the professionals, whilst I was out they got the lawyers in and established power of attorney.
Worse still, in his weakened state, Martin signed standing orders to pay monthly into the joint bank account in the Isle of Man the sum of £10,000 from Princess Salimah Aga Khan’s bank account. When I returned, Nico’s was quick to tell me he had power of attorney and only he had the right to deal with things. But again he allowed me to stay. I only found out about the Princess Salimah standing order when she noticed it. It honestly finished Martin off, he was SO distressed. How could this ever have been allowed? Simple Greed on one person’s part. Salimah was distraught though she did attend the funeral by zoom.
My beautiful Martin Annand died in St Johns hospice on the 9th of August surrounded by his civil partner Nicos and myself, his lover and friend of forty years. I was wiping his mouth with a moist tiny sponge. He was ice cold, and I knew it was the end. He made a noise then went, Nicos screamed and ran to the door, missing the fact Martin had taken one more breath, and then the beautiful angel left us for good.
Martin and I had been of the same mind; if we took ill, we would go to Switzerland and end it with dignity. In hindsight it was easier said than done. Whilst Nicos was in Greece, Martin had all the details. He had gone on business to Geneva working with Salimah Aga Khan and had everything planned, it was just down to me to take him. He was having a bad day and was booking flights. Martin’s chemo had been tremendous, although his hair had stayed, and we were full of hope.
He would shower at night trying to ease the agonising pain, but he refused to take the morphine for fear of being hooked. The doctors said it was all down to the side effects of the radiation treatment. Believing them I begged him just to give it two more weeks, then we would go and Nicos would never need to know. But they were wrong, and the cancer had spread. I would not let a dog suffer the indignity my beautiful Martin went through. My deep regret is not saying yes and flying him down to Switzerland when he wanted to go. There was no time for me to grieve at the bedside
. Nicos was hysterical and threw himself on Martin’s body. It was the opposite of what Martin stood for. It was not long though before Nicos became aware of my obvious grief. “I am his civil partner and have rights!” he shrieked at the nurse. Not for one minute did I challenge that, even though Martin was in fact still legally married to an American and she never divorced him. For five minutes I excused myself and went to the bathroom, locked the door and broke down.
This was not what Martin would have wanted, so I stood up and went to aid Nicos. He was actually kind to me, thanked me, and he was full of questions. Martin would have wanted me to look after him and, as much as he would let me, I did. It did not take long for him to hit the phone. He asked The Cousin to meet him at the house.
He called Phillipa, a long-term friend in Cyprus that Martin and I both liked, and was furious that she could not come straight away. He turned to his old friend Tee, who was also in Cyprus. The pair had fallen out for years, but a mutual ailment had brought them back together, and that Tee did not like me was a huge bonus. He was flying over the next day. I offered to stay, but it was refused. Accompanying Nicos back home, I came up to make some tea.
It was not long before the cousin arrived, she was of course kind. To my horror they jumped into funeral arrangements. Worse still, “Has anyone told Danielle. Martin was very fond of her?” was the next question. They both knew that I had fallen out with Danielle as she had taken great advantage of Martin. He had paid for her partner to be flown from Cyprus as a medical emergency. He had set up a bank account up for her and had been paying the price. I saw her as a user although Martin said “She’s great at parties”. If I was throwing a party, number one on the guest list would certainly not have been Danielle. I realised that I was on a hiding to nothing and left the pair to it.
Though I had helped Nicos as much as I could, The Cousin quickly jumped in and took over; my little eulogy was judged too much about me by the pair and not used. The actual funeral had to be seen to be believed and if Martin had not been cremated he would have rolled in his grave. In fairness I was in the funeral procession car. Arriving at their home, Nicos was not there.
I was outside as the coffin pulled up and Nicos jumped from the car wearing ripped jeans, flanked by Tee and another friend, who both seemed to be dressed like crows. He fell onto the ground of the apartment steps, wailing, “My Martin is here!” calling up to Phillipa. Ironically it looked like a scene from Tosca, a favourite opera of Martin and I. Nicos saw me then and I thought he was coming to hug me, but instead all the drama was over. “You get in the second car”. It was a shape of things to come for the day. I was only allowed a few people as mourners. Nicos did not realise that Martin still had had a life with me and he saw people like Denise Welch and others when Nicos was not around. Still, I was not going to argue and held my head with dignity. Just as I was about to enter the crematorium at Golders Green on a beautiful sunny day, Nico’s whispered to me, “I am afraid I have been a bit selfish with the eulogy.”
Looking back at him, I replied I would not expect anything else. Nicos outdid himself with the downright pack of lies contained in the eulogy. Yes, there were moments of truth but it was hard for me to comprehend what was being read out. If there was any doubt that this was not a bad dream, the beautiful friends I shared with Martin, who were there to support me, gasped in places. Darling Marieanne, a long-term friend of Martin’s and my best pal at the time, squeezed my arm each time something was read out that made Nicos sound a hero and omitted my name completely. We were instructed not to look at Nicos as we left, but he should not have worried as there was absolutely no danger of that.
Walking through the crematorium doors into the beautiful memorial gardens, my numbness started to thaw out as one of my oldest friends exclaimed, “What the fuck was that?” Nicos had had the nerve to ring my kid sister in the US and ask her to watch. It was not long before she was on the phone to find out if I was ok. “Why did he say those things?!” She knew how humiliated I must have felt and said how restrained I had been. If she had been there in person with a baseball bat…
Do not think the thought had not passed my mind. However, holding my head high was what Martin would have wanted, not some ugly drama. His eulogy was heard by 42 people. A week later I released mine on the net and it has been seen by over 4000,000 people. Many of Martin’s family and friends asked why it had not been used. It is below. My hope is to hold a proper ceremony on the anniversary of Martin’s death.
The wonder that was Martin Annand A beautiful light has left the world. But I just know he is sparkling above us full of love. Martin Annand passed away at St John’s hospice London at 12.15 on the 9th of August 2021, with Mozart piano concerto 15 playing, and his civil partner Nicos Steratzias and his former partner Steven Smith lovingly by his side. https://www.stjohnshospice.org.uk/about/
Christopher Robin said to Winne the Pooh: “You’re braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.” Martin Annand was the quintessential Christopher Robin and he loved his eclectic friends, no matter their flaws, and he embraced their strengths. He would often joke, “I think he is having an Eeyore moment”, if a friend was down or not seeing the positive about something. He would reference more of Christopher’s pals, saying, “You’re very Tigger-y today”, if one of us was particularly bouncy, and even though Martin enjoyed a healthy lifestyle, he also empathised with Pooh, adoring a sneaky sweet or two. Martin was a true English gentleman, whose style and grace made him so wonderfully unique
. People just adored him as he made every person feel important, taking an interest in everyone he met. From classic cars to a hand of bridge, the latest song by the Pet Shop Boys, or even a glance at what Robbie Williams was wearing; Martin could talk about it all. He just loved everything in life. I would often laugh to myself when people thought Martin was “serious” and “a little unapproachable”
Martin with Ian Phillips Samantha Phillips and Emma Noble and me
. He was one of the funniest people I have ever met, bringing the phrase “Don’t judge the book by its cover” to mind. Martin’s inner child beamed out to those who knew him and took the time to see the beautiful man for who he really was. When I first met him, he told me a story that could only happen to Martin. He said, “I went to a dinner party last night. When I got there, the house was awfully dark. When I pressed the doorbell, the hostess answered in her night attire. “Oh, has the dinner been cancelled?” I enquired. “It was last week”, the hostess answered, wide mouthed. “And what is more, you came to it!”
Martin had the ability to laugh at himself. He was funny, sometimes forgetful and, what is a rare quality these days, loyal. Whenever you saw him, he opened his wide blue eyes and smiled, and he made you believe you could do whatever you wanted to do. He was fortunate enough to have danced with Princess Margaret, but always said he enjoyed dancing at his friend Denise Welch’s ball, with a group of bright young things, more than with Her Royal Highness. Martin just loved the dance of life and he threw himself into everything – whether it was captaining a boat or dancing the Conga in Rio de Janeiro.
Or partying in St. Tropez for his friend Pam Sharrock’s 60th. I recall him skiing down a black run in Klosters Ski Resort with such ease, leaving the soon-to-be-famous Denise Welch and myself way behind. Of course, Martin being Martin, he was straight back up the slope to come to the aid of his friends. There is so much to write on The Exceptional Mr Annand that it could fill two volumes. If there is a Heaven, he will be up there playing bridge and chatting to his friends who journeyed there before him. If he is looking down, all he would want for us is love, success and happiness, as Martin embodied in everything he did in life. But please continue reading as this is a story of one of the most glamorous, quintessential gentlemen, whose story will make you laugh, gasp and cry. He was the accountant for some of the world’s wealthiest and most famous people despite never training as an accountant. The man that could make you feel like you could fly…
The Animal Bond Award at the Autism Hero Awards, organised by Anna Kennedy Online, is one of the most heart-warming and meaningful categories in the programme. It celebrates the profound and often life-changing relationships between animals and autistic individuals, shining a light on how these unique bonds enrich lives in extraordinary ways.
For many autistic people, animals provide comfort without judgement, routine without pressure, and companionship without expectation. Whether it is a loyal dog offering emotional regulation, a cat providing quiet reassurance, or another cherished animal companion helping to reduce anxiety and build confidence, these relationships can be transformational. The Animal Bond Award recognises those stories that demonstrate empathy, connection, and mutual understanding between humans and animals.
This special category is judged by a compassionate and experienced panel, including pet rescue star Wendy Turner Webster, alongside model and actress Victoria Featherstone Peace, and the talented Tess Eagle Swan who brings insight and authenticity to the judging process as ambassador of the charity. and her idea to add the category .
Tess with Kratu
Together, they celebrate stories that remind us how powerful kindness, trust, and unconditional love can be—proving that sometimes the strongest bonds are formed without words.
Please Nominate and come join us on the night the details below
Finding the perfect birthday experience for someone special is no small task—especially when expectations are high and the guest of honour is flying in from Lisbon with friends in tow. A month before the big day, my phone rang.
“Steven,” my best friend said, “I really want to do something fun for Hernando’s birthday. Something exciting. A show. There’ll be ten of us. What do you suggest?”
I’d been hearing whispers—more like delighted murmurs—circulating through my social circle about a production with just the right amount of cheeky X-factor. A show called SABRAGE. The reviews were glowing, bordering on evangelical, and once I looked further, the decision was made.
Described as an intoxicating collision of circus artistry, vintage glamour, high-octane acrobatics, and mischievous humour, SABRAGE promised far more than a conventional night out. It billed itself not merely as a show, but as an experience. And it
delivers—spectacularly.
On Saturday evening, we headed to King’s Cross, an area that has undergone one of London’s most impressive transformations over the past decade. Once gritty and utilitarian, it’s now a cultural and social hub buzzing with confidence. Lafayette, located just four minutes’ walk from the station, sits discreetly behind the main thoroughfare—an architectural gem that immediately sets the tone.
From the moment you arrive, the welcome is warm and efficient. Even security manages to be charming—no small feat. Before entering the theatre space, there are a few house rules. Chief among them: no photographs of nudity. This might raise an eyebrow or two, but rest assured—nothing here is gratuitous. Everything is artfully staged, elegant, playful, and firmly in good taste. If you’re easily offended, this may not be your night—but if you appreciate sensuality delivered with wit and intelligence, you’re in safe hands.
One of SABRAGE’s most impressive feats—aside from the performers themselves—is the seamless audience experience. Drinks and food can be ordered directly from your seat via a simple scan, and every member of staff we encountered was genuinely helpful, friendly, and clearly proud of the production.
The show opens with a theatrical pop—a sword cleanly slicing the cork from a champagne bottle—setting the mood instantly. Our hosts glide onstage, equal parts ringmaster and rogue, and from that moment, the audience is completely seduced.
Then comes the talent.
Almost immediately, the room developed a collective crush on Flynn Miller, whose high-flying aerial act is nothing short of breathtaking. There is a rare beauty in watching someone so utterly in command of their body, defying gravity with elegance, strength, and apparent effortlessness. His performance alone would be worth the ticket price.
But SABRAGE is far more than a one-man triumph. The cast—drawn from the very best international circus and acrobatic talent—deliver a relentless parade of jaw-dropping moments. There is danger, precision, laughter, and an undercurrent of delicious rebellion throughout. Vintage glamour collides with modern irreverence, and the result is electric.
What makes SABRAGE truly special is its balance. It knows exactly how far to push without tipping into excess. The humour is cheeky rather than crude. The sensuality is teasing, never tawdry. The spectacle is bold but controlled. Every act feels curated, every transition intentional.
By the end of the evening, our table of ten—birthday boy included—was unanimous. This wasn’t just a successful celebration; it was a night none of us will forget. SABRAGE doesn’t simply entertain—it exhilarates.
If you’re looking for something genuinely different in London, whether for a birthday, celebration, or simply because life deserves more champagne-fuelled circus brilliance, SABRAGE at Lafayette should be at the very top of your list.
Well, I have just witnessed a man stand up and speak who could best be described as the prodigious love child of Keith Richards and Ricky Gervais—conceived, perhaps, through the mischievous spirit of Janet Street-Porter. Hilarious. Sharp. Fearless. Unapologetically himself.
And yet, despite appearances, I was not tucked away in a comedy club. Instead, Anna Kennedy OBE and I had ventured somewhere altogether different, joining Pier Space Speakers Corner London for one of their celebrated lunches, held at the funky Balfour St Barts.
What struck me immediately was the atmosphere: a room buzzing with ideas, warmth, and possibility. This was not a classroom, nor a rigid corporate seminar. It was a gathering of diverse voices—entrepreneurs, creatives, leaders, advocates—coming together to share experiences across business, inspiration, leadership, and life itself. A place where stories mattered as much as strategies.
I am no stranger to speaking. I love radio and television, thrive in podcasts, relish a debate, and happily interview just about anyone. Give me a microphone and a subject and I’m entirely at home. But there is a lesser-known truth about me: when it comes to standing up and talking about myself, I freeze. I brick it, as we say. Confidence deserts me. Words scatter.
Yes, a couple of glasses of vino may occasionally loosen the tongue and—miraculously—result in a standing ovation. But that’s hardly a reliable strategy.
So when Anna suggested we both attend Speakers Corner London—not as performers, but as participants, learners, listeners—I jumped at the chance. And I am so glad I did.
Out and about with Anna Kennedy obe
This was the perfect antidote to fear: an environment that was supportive rather than judgemental, energising rather than intimidating. Not a “class” in the traditional sense, but something far more powerful—an inspirational space where you learn almost by osmosis, simply by being in the room with talented, generous people who genuinely want others to succeed.
Anna, of course, took to it like the Energiser Bunny discovering a microphone. Confident, articulate, and deeply authentic, she reminded everyone why her work in autism awareness and advocacy has made such a lasting impact. Watching her speak so naturally, so purposefully, was inspiring in itself.
The lunch marked a pretty epic kick-off to the 2026 events season, and it felt fantastic to be back among such a stellar group of speakers. The line-up read like a roll-call of insight and expertise: Paul Thomas, the “Sound of Success” specialist; Graham Norris, a future confidence guru; Phil Street FIH, hospitality podcaster extraordinaire; Gill Tiney, global collaboration champion and super-connector; Maria Pardo, marketing guru and Toastmasters president; Nic Marks, happiness author and statistician; Hulya Erbeyli PCC, an authentic leadership coach; Paul Cook, expert in change and transformation; and Trevor Folley, whose work on building cultures of trust resonated deeply.
A special mention must go to Yvette Jeal PCC, who opened the speaker spotlight slots for the year with a calm, confident and fascinating immersion into the neuroscience of peak performance. It was one of those talks that leaves you thinking differently—not just about leadership, but about how we show up every day. Felix Riley followed with a high-energy, often amusing and extremely useful set of ten tips for speakers, distilled from years of hard-won experience.
And then there was Zoie Golding MBE, sharing news of the Big Movement and its inspiring mission to get more men dancing for mental health—proof, if ever it were needed, that leadership comes in many forms, and impact is not confined to boardrooms.
By the end of the afternoon, I realised something important: this wasn’t just about learning how to speak better. It was about confidence, connection, and community. About giving people permission to find their voice—whatever that voice sounds like—and to use it with purpose.
So yes, Anna Kennedy OBE and I did venture out to do something different. And in doing so, I found myself quietly braver, unexpectedly inspired, and already looking forward to the next Speakers Corner London gathering in May.
Sometimes, the most powerful thing you can do is simply show up, sit among the experts, and allow yourself to learn.
There are nights out, and then there are nights that feel like a rite of passage. One such evening found artist Piluca and myself stepping through the doors of the legendary Royal Vauxhall Tavern, to witness the singular brilliance of David Hoyle—a figure who exists somewhere between performer, prophet, poet, and living artwork.
I once described Hoyle as the love child of Kate Bush and Lindsay Kemp, and I stand by it. He is not merely an accomplished performer—with a career spanning television, film, and theatre—but an artist who uses his entire being as medium and message. Last year alone he appeared on stage in an adaptation of Hedda Gabler, proving once again that he is as comfortable in classical reinterpretation as he is in anarchic cabaret.
Hoyle is, quite simply, a walking piece of art. He cuts a vein—metaphorical, emotional, spiritual—and allows the audience to witness everything that spills out: his fears, his hopes, his contradictions. There is no armour, no polite distance. When I interviewed him previously for FLUX magazine, it was immediately clear that what you see on stage is not an act but an extension of the man himself. His work screams originality. It declares, unapologetically: This is me. This is David.
The Royal Vauxhall Tavern functions as his church, and Hoyle its high priest. From the roof—sometimes literally—he preaches love, acceptance, beauty, and defiance. His congregation is as eclectic as it is devoted. On any given night you might find Princess Julia rubbing shoulders with City bankers, artists, drag legends, first-timers, and the gloriously undefinable. It would not be absurd to compare the atmosphere to Warhols Factory in its heyday: a collision of art, celebrity, and counterculture, bound together by a shared understanding that something special is happening in the room.
What is striking is the complete absence of age anxiety. Hoyle himself dismisses it with a wave of the hand: “Everyone is beautiful in the room.” And they are. Young and old gather as equals at the metaphorical fountain, drinking in his wisdom, his wit, and his generosity of spirit. The atmosphere is electric yet oddly intimate, like a secret shared by hundreds.
Piluca and me at The Royal Vauxhall Tavern
This is not to say the evening is solemn. Far from it. Hoyle’s humour is razor-sharp, his observations hilariously precise—particularly when directed at the audience. Sit front and centre and expect to become fodder. But crucially, he is never cruel. There is warmth beneath the provocation, and affection behind the mischief.
The man seated next to me informed me—without a hint of irony—that this was his 135th time seeing Hoyle perform. A true disciple. By contrast, my gorgeous friend Piluca—Spanish-born artist and creative force—was a virgin to the experience. I could think of no one better to introduce to what I consider a kindred artistic spirit.
Two incredible artist Piluca meets Hoyle
She was utterly blown away. The evening began with a film tribute to our shared hero, David Bowie, and Piluca leaned over to whisper, “It’s like being dipped in everything I love.” She could not wait to come back, already plotting a return before the night had even ended.
Adding to the richness of the evening, Pam—taking a brief pause from her charity work—took to the stage to read poetry. We were promised one poem and given two, a small but perfect act of generosity that felt entirely in keeping with the spirit of the night.
The show concluded with Hoyle playing cupid, creating a live portrait of two handsome men from the audience—art, flirtation, and theatre merging in real time. To be part of such an evening is to leave not only entertained, but altered. You walk out thinking differently, feeling differently, slightly braver perhaps.
This is not just a show. It is an experience—unique, communal, and deeply worthwhile. In a world increasingly starved of authenticity, David Hoyle remains gloriously, defiantly real.
The unmistakable cry of British panto rang through the air at the Malthouse Theatre this week — and what followed was nothing short of a sparkling theatrical treat. Front and centre of this dazzling afternoon was the uber-talented Vicki Michelle.
I joined Dr Anna Kennedy for what promised to be a memorable afternoon — and it delivered in spades.
Just five minutes from Canterbury West station, the Malthouse Theatre is a gem of a venue. Housed in a former 19th-century malt house, it offers a warmth and intimacy that many larger theatres lack. From the moment we took our seats, there was a buzz in the air — the kind that tells you something special is about to unfold.
Anna and I had travelled to see a true British icon — and a good friend of Anna Kennedy Online — in action. While I was there to review the show, Anna had something rather important to ask the star of the performance once the curtain came down.
Let’s be clear: if you think you’re heading to see a “regional” panto, think again. Sleeping Beauty rivals anything currently on offer in the West End — and at a far more affordable price. The cast work tirelessly, delivering an action-packed, high-energy production that never once drops the pace.
There is nothing like a Dame as Joseph Gardner Hodges leads a stellar cast in Sleeing Beauty .
The show really kicks off brilliantly with Tim Edwards, one of the freshest comedy talents I’ve seen in a long while. Playing Jangles — Sleeping Beauty’s equivalent of Buttons — he holds the production together with effortless comic timing, youthful energy, and a commanding stage presence. He is a natural, and the audience instantly warms to him.
Joining him is one of the finest Dames I have ever seen: Joseph Gardiner-Hodges as Nurse Fanny. Hilarious, fearless, and utterly fantastic, Gardiner-Hodges is the yeast in the bread of this show — without him, it simply wouldn’t rise as far. Whether flirting shamelessly with the male members of the audience, delivering razor-sharp one-liners, or fiercely protecting Princess Aurora from the Wicked Queen (or should we say the “socially challenged” queen), he had the audience in stitches. The costume changes alone deserve their own round of applause — though a shoe change for Fanny would have made it an A+.
Then there’s Prince Charming, played by Jordan Calloway. Yes, he’s a good-looking in an Australian soap star way — but more importantly, he can sing. And not just “panto sing” — his voice genuinely stands out, rivalling many performers currently gracing the West End stage.
Just when you think the show can’t possibly get any better, on comes British icon and comedy legend Vicki Michelle as the deliciously evil Carabosse. From the moment she steps on stage, she commands attention. This is stage presence that simply cannot be taught. The former Allo Allo star looks phenomenal and proves exactly why she remains such a treasured figure in British entertainment. (And yes — we absolutely need her back in EastEnders.)
Fabulous costumes as Vicki Michelle captures the audience with her spells.
Her rendition of I Put a Spell on You brought the house down. Despite — or perhaps because of — the enthusiastic boos, Michelle revelled in the “baddie” role, clearly enjoying every moment. Watching an actress with such mastery of her craft is a joy; she knows exactly how to hold an audience in the palm of her hand.
The production values throughout are outstanding. The sets are dazzling, the costumes are richly detailed, and a particularly cute dragon called Caroline steals more than a few scenes. Remarkably, this was the company’s second performance of the day — yet they were as fresh as daisies, delivering with precision, warmth, and infectious enthusiasm.
Next year’s production is Goldilocks and the Three Bears, and on the strength of this alone, I’d say: book now.
After the show, Anna and I surprised Vicki by asking her to become a Patron of Anna Kennedy Online. A long-time friend and supporter of the charity, she was genuinely thrilled to accept. Only weeks earlier, she had joined Anna on GB News to discuss the charity’s work and her ongoing commitment to the autism community.
Dr Anna Kennedy OBE back stage with Vicki Michelle .
Anna summed it up perfectly:
“Vicki is someone who, when she says she will do something, it gets done. She has inspired so many within the autistic community, and we are incredibly proud to have her as a Patron.”
What a day. Huge thanks to the Malthouse Theatre and the wonderful city of Canterbury for such a magical afternoon — proof, if ever it were needed, that great theatre thrives far beyond the West End.
Welcome to Steven’s Viewz — the first of 2026. And let’s start the year with an uncomfortable truth.
Adam and Holly
Is it ever okay not to invite a family member to a major life event? Is it ever acceptable to distance yourself — or even cut ties completely?
The short answer is this: yes, sometimes it is not only acceptable, it is necessary.
The question has been dragged into the spotlight following the wedding of the year, as Adam Peaty married Holly Ramsay and chose not to invite his mother. Predictably, the outrage machine kicked into gear. Headlines screamed. Opinions flooded in. Armchair judges — armed with no facts and limitless certainty — rushed to condemn.
Here’s what struck me most: how quick people are to defend family in theory, and how unwilling they are to accept the damage family can cause in reality.
Not all families are The Waltons. Some families are battlegrounds dressed up as photo albums.
Behind the smiling Christmas cards and Facebook posts lie power struggles, control, emotional manipulation, and silence that screams louder than words. And when someone finally says “enough,” the world often turns on them — not the behaviour that pushed them there.
I know this terrain well.
I grew up in a family where people disappeared without explanation. At nine years old, I came home to find myself locked out. Eventually, the letterbox opened and my mother asked, “Are you on your own?” A row between her and her mother — my grandmother — had ended the relationship entirely. One moment she was part of our lives; the next, she was erased.
Visiting my grandparents had once been a joy. Then it became forbidden. When I later wrote to my gran, there were consequences. At fourteen, I was sent alone to Glasgow — not to reconnect, but to persuade my grandparents not to take my father’s side in court. That was the last time I ever saw them.
That isn’t family warmth. That’s family politics.
So when people scoff and say, “But she’s his mother,” I don’t hear wisdom — I hear denial.
Adam and muu Caroline .
Because sometimes family isn’t a source of love. Sometimes it’s a source of fear, obligation, and emotional exhaustion. And no wedding day — no milestone — should be overshadowed by anxiety about who might erupt, undermine, or hijack the moment.
Much as you try to make it work, some people are only content when they are in control. When they aren’t centre stage, they create drama to pull the spotlight back. And when confronted, they cast themselves as the victim — never acknowledging the trail of damage behind them.
Let’s be honest: if a friend behaved that way — belittling you, calling you names, sabotaging your happiness — would you keep them in your life? Of course you wouldn’t. Yet when it’s family, we’re told to endure it. Smile through it. Absorb it.
Why?
Mental health does not become optional because someone shares your DNA.
Often, when people move into new social circles or build lives different from the ones they were raised in, it triggers insecurity in those left behind. Even when efforts are made to include them, their anxiety spills out as disruptive behaviour. Weddings, birthdays, celebrations — all become stages for unresolved resentment.
If Adam’s mother were truly the injured party, dignity would have been her strongest ally. Silence, reflection, restraint — not public outrage. Those who are genuinely wronged rarely need to shout the loudest.
Adam didn’t just make a decision about a wedding invitation. He changed his surname. That is not impulsive. That is not petty. That is the culmination of years of internal conflict, careful thought, and emotional cost.
And I applaud him for doing it early — before resentment calcifies, before damage multiplies, before patterns repeat. Family member may love you but it does not allow them to hurt you and be in denial.
No family member should ever make you feel small, fearful, or unworthy. Family should be the safest place — not the one you brace yourself for.
Sometimes the bravest, healthiest choice is to step away. Not out of bitterness, but out of self-respect. Not to punish, but to protect.
And if that makes people uncomfortable, perhaps it’s because it forces them to confront a truth they’d rather ignore:
Family doesn’t get a free pass to hurt you.
Why Amandaland Was the Christmas Treat We Didn’t Know We Needed
There is a particular kind of Christmas television that feels like slipping into a familiar jumper: slightly stretched, deeply comforting, and faintly ridiculous. The Amandaland Christmas special is exactly that kind of viewing — and all the better for it.
Christmas Day television is a battlefield. Big budgets, earnest dramas, and aggressively “heartwarming” narratives often jostle for attention, all while families argue over the remote and someone burns the sprouts. Amandaland cuts through the noise by doing something radical: it knows precisely what it is. A sharp, character-driven comedy about social aspiration, emotional repression, and the very British terror of appearing ordinary — now wrapped in tinsel.
The episode’s premise is delightfully simple. Amanda, our tightly wound heroine, decides to recreate a “perfect” childhood Christmas at her aunt’s country home. Naturally, this requires absolute aesthetic control, emotional denial, and an unwavering belief that nothing — not weather, children, or other people — should interfere with her vision. What follows is a festive slow-motion collapse, played with exquisite comic timing.
Enter Jennifer Saunders, who turns up as Aunt Joan like a glitter cannon fired directly into the episode. Saunders doesn’t merely steal scenes — she annexes them. Her performance is gloriously unfiltered, full of physical comedy, throwaway lines, and the sense that she is enjoying herself enormously. This is not nostalgia casting; this is a master at work, reminding us how joyful comedy can be when it’s driven by confidence rather than caution.
Then there’s Joanna Lumley, a woman who could make a shopping list sound withering. As Amanda’s emotionally glacial mother, Lumley delivers her lines with that unmistakable mix of elegance and quiet disdain. Every raised eyebrow lands like a punchline. She doesn’t chase laughs — she allows them to come to her, which somehow makes them sharper. Watching Lumley and Saunders share the screen again is less a reunion and more a reminder: this is what happens when comic icons are trusted to do what they do best.
What makes Amandaland such perfect Christmas viewing is its refusal to be falsely sentimental. Yes, there’s warmth here — but it’s earned, not imposed. The show understands that Christmas isn’t magical because it’s perfect; it’s memorable because it rarely is. The forced cheer, the unresolved family tensions, the desperate attempts to manufacture tradition — all of it rings painfully, hilariously true.
In an era where television often feels either too bleak or too bland, Amandaland occupies a sweet spot we desperately need more of. It’s clever without being smug, affectionate without being soft, and funny without shouting for attention. Most importantly, it trusts its audience — and its performers — to appreciate humour rooted in character rather than spectacle.
By the time the credits roll, you feel lighter. Not because everything’s been neatly resolved, but because you’ve laughed at the chaos instead of pretending it doesn’t exist. And really, isn’t that the whole point of Christmas television?
2Shades Magazine 