Listen, up Mike is back . You’re thinking about growing a Moustache? Maybe for November Good call. Nothing changes your look quicker than a solid ’stache. But here’s the thing: if you want it to look sharp and not like you’ve just crawled out of a cave, you’ve got to know how to grow it right, keep it clean, and style it like a pro. Lucky for you, I’m here to give you the lowdown . https://uk.movember.com
Step 1: Growing Your Moustache
Be patient
Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither is a proper Moustache. Depending on your hair type, it can take three to six weeks before it really starts to take shape. Don’t rush it — let nature do its thing.
Barber’s Tip: Forget that old wives’ tale about shaving making it grow back thicker. Doesn’t work. What does help? Eating well, getting sleep, staying active, and keeping your skin clean. Healthy body, healthy hair.
Grow the tach first
Here’s the trick: instead of letting just the lip fuzz sit there looking lonely, grow your whole beard out. Once the mustache thickens up, then shave the beard. That way, you dodge the awkward “half-grown” look.
Invest in a trimmer
Trust me, a good trimmer is worth its weight in gold. Scissors are fine for touch-ups, but if you want precision, get yourself a rechargeable trimmer with adjustable guards. Or come see me once a week
Celebrity client Nick Nevern
Define the shape
Most Moustaches run to the corners of your mouth and stop there. Keep the lip hair, shave the cheeks, chin, and jaw. Once you’ve carved out the shape, leave it alone and just keep the rest of your face tidy.
Keep it clean
Facial hair traps oil, sweat, and the crumbs from last night’s sandwich. Wash it a couple times a week with a mild shampoo and conditioner. Softer hair = less itch. If you’re fancy, a little beard oil won’t hurt. After all that tach can bring all the boys or gals to the yard but if it isn’t clean they will run right back
yes thats 70’s who’s your daddy ? looks is back and Mike here to show you how to get it and maintain ,
Step 2: Maintaining the ’Stache
Keep it neat
Even the wildest Mustache needs a little discipline. Snip stray hairs with scissors or lightly buzz the ends with your trimmer. How often depends on your style — could be daily, could be weekly.
Wash and groom
A good foaming face wash in the morning and before bed keeps your skin clear and your mustache fresh. Nobody likes a greasy upper lip.
Train it with wax
If you’re going for anything beyond “basic lip rug,” you’ll need wax. Warm a little between your fingers, rub it through, then comb it from the middle outward. Beard combs work best — small teeth, good control.
Mikes work the ultimate in 1920s tach
Step 3: Styling Ideas
Now for the fun part. What kind of moustache guy are you?
The Pencil: Thin, sharp, clean lines. Think old-school film star or John Waters.
The Boxcar: A neat rectangle above the lip, stopping before the corners. Straightforward and tidy.
The Fu Manchu: Hair extends down past the jawline. Bold move — not for the faint-hearted.
The Handlebar: Grow it long, curl the ends up with wax. Victorian gent or modern hipster, your pick.
The Walrus: Big, bushy, covers the top lip. Think Teddy Roosevelt chopping wood.
The Selleck: Full, strong, classic. You’ve seen it a thousand times — it never goes out of style.
And here’s the truth: you don’t need to stick to just one. Mix, match, experiment. Worst case? You don’t like it, you shave it off. Best case? You find your signature look.
Looks like a star .
Final Words from the Barber’s Chair
A Mustache isn’t just hair on your face — it’s a statement. Take the time to grow it right, keep it clean, and wear it with confidence. Remember: a man doesn’t just grow a Mustache. He earns getting to ask “Who’s Your Daddy? “
Why Katie Price Needs to Back Off and Let Her Kids Shine Without Her Interference
Growing up is never easy — not for the average teenager, and certainly not for those with famous parents. For most young people, adolescence is about carving out your own identity, deciding who you want to be, and pursuing your chosen career or further education. It’s a period of self-discovery and independence. But when your every move has been played out in the glare of the press since childhood, the challenge is far greater.
Children of celebrities live with a unique pressure. They’re often unfairly labelled with the now-infamous tag “Nepo Baby” — short for “nepotism baby” — a term referring to someone whose career mirrors or is connected to that of their famous parent. The implication is clear: their achievements aren’t earned but handed to them through family connections. The phrase is often used as an insult, suggesting that their success is unearned, undeserved, or simply the result of privilege.
Of course, this isn’t always the case. Some celebrity children go out of their way to avoid using their family name, working hard to make it on their own merits. In many instances, the public only learns of their famous parentage long after they’ve established themselves. On the flip side, stepping into the same spotlight as a parent and not quite measuring up can be devastating for mental health. The pressure to “live up to” a legacy can crush even the most talented young person.
Take Princess Andre, for example. She’s a young woman with dreams, ambition, and — crucially — talent. Under the guidance of Clare Powell, a woman I’d call a genius in the world of entertainment management, Princess has been making strides toward building her own career. Powell is the same powerhouse who played a key role in shaping Katie Price’s early career. Importantly, Katie is not directly involved in Princess’s current projects.
Stunning Princess Andrea
Now, I’ve been a huge supporter of Katie Price over the years — I’ve defended her when many wouldn’t. But on this occasion, Katie, it’s time to take a step back. In fact, take one hundred steps back. Be a proud mum, but let Princess shine without you hovering in the background. It’s about dignity — a word that doesn’t often appear in the Pricey vocabulary — and allowing your daughter to succeed on her own terms.
I have a close friend whose sons are both stars now: one’s a famous rock musician, the other a West End performer. Before their success, my friend made a conscious decision to stay out of their spotlight. No hanging around at every audition, no being photographed at every event. She let them find their own way, even if it meant watching from the sidelines. That kind of quiet support is invaluable — and something Katie could learn from.
The truth is, Princess already has “star” written all over her. Yes, her famous parents have opened some doors — there’s no denying that. But she’s also beautiful, poised, polite, and grounded in a way that the teenage Jordan (Katie’s former alter ego) simply wasn’t. While Katie at that age was known for her brashness and colourful vocabulary, Princess seems to have a quiet charm and grace that’s refreshing to see.
Of course, fame dynamics can get tricky within families. I’ve seen it happen. Sometimes a parent who’s spent years in the spotlight finds it hard when their child begins to eclipse them. I remember a friend whose mother was always the centre of attention. We once attended a concert together, and during the show, the star actually stopped mid-performance to compliment my friend’s daughter — “Who is this beauty?” they asked. The girl was thrilled. But when she turned to share the moment with her mum, the mother had vanished, unable to handle not being the one in the spotlight.
Even Hollywood royalty have faced this. Liza Minnelli once admitted that her mother, Judy Garland, struggled to accept her daughter’s fame. It’s a reminder that parental pride can sometimes be mixed with a very human sense of insecurity.
In Princess’s case, the potential is huge. She has the looks, the talent, and the personality to carve out a significant career in modelling, media, or whatever creative path she chooses. The worst thing that could happen is for her efforts to be overshadowed by her mum’s drama, headlines, or interference.
Some might argue that Katie’s involvement is only natural — after all, she’s been in the industry for decades. But let’s be honest: sometimes experience comes with baggage. Katie’s falling-out with Clare Powell has been well documented, but that shouldn’t affect Princess’s choices. Powell helped make Katie a household name in the first place. This is show business — not “show friends” — and if I had a daughter with career ambitions, I’d want her with the best possible management team. Personal disagreements shouldn’t dictate professional decisions when a young career is on the line.
If Katie truly wants to support her daughter, she needs to be a cheerleader, not a co-star. Let Princess have her own brand, her own media moments, and her own relationship with the public. This doesn’t mean disappearing from her life — just from her professional life. Turn up to watch from the audience, not to stand centre stage. Offer advice privately, not through the pages of a tabloid.
In today’s media-saturated world, it’s hard enough for young people to find their place without the shadow of a famous parent looming over every opportunity. Princess deserves the space to make mistakes, learn lessons, and earn her own applause. And if she’s anything like she seems — poised, polite, and full of potential — she’ll do just fine.
The bottom line? Princess Andre has a bright future. But for her to truly shine, Katie Price needs to take not one or two, but one hundred steps back — and stay there until she’s invited forward. That’s what real support looks like
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Good luck to Jack Kay .
If proof was ever needed that you can flog your soul to the devil for fame, look no further than the sudden, stratospheric rise of Ibiza’s self-styled “final boss.” One click of a camera, one cheeky social media post, and bang — he’s out-trending the Pricey and even the Trump. That’s no small feat, considering those two can normally generate headlines by simply breathing in public.
The man behind the moniker? Jack Kay. No chart-topping singles. No Oscar-bait performances. No tell-all autobiography written “in his own words” but suspiciously sounding like it was dictated to a ghostwriter over Zoom. Just… Jack. A man who, by all accounts, was minding his own business until fate, flash photography, and the internet combined to anoint him this week’s celebrity overlord.
And do you know what? Fair play to him. He’s a smashing lad by all appearances, and I can’t help but root for him. In fact, I’m practically booking my front-row seat for his inevitable debut on Celebrity Big Brother or I’m a Celebrity… Get Me Out of Here! Picture it now: Jack in the jungle, wearing a head torch, looking mildly confused while chewing kangaroo testicles for the nation’s amusement. It’s practically destiny.
Of course, his overnight success has sent a few noses wildly out of joint in the fame industry. Imagine clawing your way up the greasy celebrity pole — posting your best pout, cultivating “scandals,” leaking your own “leaked” texts — only to have Jack Kay swoop in with one photo and walk off with the nation’s attention like it’s a free canapé at a launch party. Delicious.
It’s not just the wannabe-set bristling either; the whole saga has become a sort of cultural Rorschach test. Some see Jack as proof of the absurdity of fame in the age of the algorithm. Others see him as the internet’s latest crush. I see a man who’s managed to play the game without even reading the rulebook.
Because let’s be honest, the rules have changed. Once, you needed a record deal, a primetime slot, or a scandal big enough to get a mention in the News of the World (RIP). Now? You just need a single moment that makes the internet collectively say: Yes, this one. This is our new obsession. It could be a photograph. It could be a TikTok. It could be an ill-advised comment made in a kebab shop at 3am. And suddenly, you’re hot property.
Will Jack’s reign as Ibiza’s final boss last? Who knows. The internet’s love affairs are fickle. One minute you’re the meme of the moment, the next you’re that guy people vaguely remember seeing “on something once.” But for now, Jack’s milking his fifteen minutes with style, and I, for one, am here for it. If he has done a deal with the devil, I hope it came with a decent rider — champagne, sunglasses, and maybe a small island.
Hurray — Wednesday is back on Netflix! And if that wasn’t already a big enough treat for fans of the macabre, there’s an extra twist in the cobweb this season: the legendary Joanna Lumley has joined the cast as Wednesday’s formidable grandmother.
Yes, you read that right. From Absolutely Fabulous to The Wolf of Wall Street, Lumley has always brought her own brand of razor-sharp wit and undeniable glamour to every role. Now, she’s stepping into the delightfully creepy world of the Addams family, and honestly, it feels like a match made in gothic heaven.
Heidi Gammon is BACK — and school’s in session! Sharpen those pencils, unpack the lunchbox, and brace yourself — because whether you’re heading to high school, moving into halls, or just trying to survive term-time drama, I’ve got the answers you need. From messy roommates to holiday hook-ups, from bullies to big life changes — let’s crack open the advice book and dive right in.
Hello Heidi, Love you and the show! I’m going to uni next month and sharing accommodation with my best friend. Over the summer, I realised that I’m gay and attracted to other women. Apart from telling my mum, no one else knows. I don’t fancy my best friend, so that’s not a problem, but should I tell her before we move in together in case she freaks out? Amber, Southend
Heidi says: Amber, the only “freak out” here would be if your friend suddenly forgot you’re still the same person you were last term. Your sexuality isn’t a warning label you have to stick on before move-in day. If you want to tell her, do it because you trust her, not because you’re scared of her reaction. And if she’s a real friend, she’ll be more interested in who’s nicking her milk from the fridge than who you fancy.
Dear Heidi, This is awful. I’m not gay, but I’m friends with a guy who is what you might call “fluid.” We got very drunk on holiday, and I remember him performing an oral sex act on me. There’s no way it would have happened sober, and now it’s made it difficult to be friends. I tried to talk to him about it, but he just said, “What happens in Ibiza stays in Ibiza.” I have a girlfriend, and I’m terrified she’ll find out. What do I do? Colin, Billericay
Heidi says
Colin, Ibiza clearly needs a new slogan: “What happens in Ibiza… tends to follow you home.” You’ve got a friendship issue and a relationship issue — and both need honesty. Tell your mate the boundaries from now on. As for your girlfriend, decide whether you’re confessing to ease your guilt or because it’s something she genuinely needs to know. Either way, learn your lesson: too much booze and fuzzy boundaries are a recipe for regret.
Hi Heidi, How are you? Last year I shared uni accommodation with a great guy — honestly, we were like brothers — but sadly he’s moved to the States. A new guy is moving in, but I bumped into his old roommate who warned me: he doesn’t mind him personally, but apparently he walks around naked, smokes weed, and puts porn on openly. Plus, he’s messy and leaves everything for others to clean up. That’s my idea of hell! It’s too late to back out — what can I do? Hunter, Basildon
Heidi says: Hunter, sounds like you’ve been dealt the ultimate “uni flatmate bingo” card. On day one, set the house rules in plain English: no nakedness in shared spaces, no weed inside, and mess gets cleaned. If he ignores that, fortress your room — lock, headphones, maybe even a mini-fridge. And remember: it’s one academic year, not a life sentence. What’s up Heidi, I’m still at high school and I hate it. There’s a girl who bullies me so badly that my life is a misery, and I don’t want to go back. What can I do? Stella, Brentwood
Heidi says: Stella, no one should dread school because of one cruel person. Tell a teacher, a school counsellor, or your parents — and keep a record of everything she says or does. If it’s online, screenshot it. Schools are legally obliged to act on bullying. I promise you this: she is not as powerful as she seems. One day you’ll be out in the world living your best life, and she’ll still be stuck in her small one.
Heidi, My girlfriend and I have been together for five years and we want to adopt a child — maybe two. How do we go about it? My mum says it’s a terrible idea and refuses to help. Mandy, Brighton
Heidi says: Mandy, if love, stability, and commitment are in place, you’re already halfway there. Start with your local council or an approved adoption agency — they’ll guide you through assessments, training, and matching with a child. It’s a long process, but worth it. most local authorities and agencies like pact do information evenings for people thinking about adoption these are great and informative and well worth going to
As for your mum, her approval would be lovely, but it’s not a requirement on the application form. Build your family your way.
Celebrating my best pals birthday was just a dream.
My best pals birthday in superb surroundings .
France’s Dordogne is no stranger to charm, but this tiny wine-soaked village might just be its best-kept secret
By Steven Smith
Five days in a southwest French village left me sun-warmed, wine-softened, and wondering how I’d lived this long without knowing Saussignac existed. This is rural France at its most painterly — all rolling vineyards, candlelit dinners, and the slow thrum of a life well-lived.
The Birthday That Changed Everything
When my best friend invited me away for her birthday, I braced for Dubai. Maybe Ibiza. Somewhere loud and expensive, where my idea of a lie-in would be drowned out by basslines and foam cannons.
Instead, she said, “Saussignac.”
The name meant nothing to me — until an artist friend described it as “wines of the gods, food like nectar, and a village so pretty it could be in a Merchant Ivory film.” He added, with a wink, “Some hotels feel like art galleries — all taste, style, and warmth.”
Two weeks later, we were landing at Bergerac Airport, a dinky 1960s gem that could double as a film set. In 10 minutes, we were in the hire car. In 20, we were in another world.
“Darling, you don’t do anything there. You immerse yourself in beauty.”
First Glimpse of a Slower Life
The drive was a moving painting: rolling vineyards, fields of wildflowers, terracotta-tiled farmhouses unchanged for centuries. Every curve of the road offered a new gasp-worthy view.
My Secret Sanctuary
While the rest of the party checked into the lively hub of the village, I chose a private B&B run by Dutch hostess Ingrid Leenders.
Her place is a pocket of peace: rustic gardens, a tiled pool, and rooms with open-plan bathrooms (romantics, take note). No TV, but strong Wi-Fi, a coffee machine, and a small fridge. Each morning at seven sharp, breakfast appeared — fresh bread, cheeses, eggs, and orange juice.
Ingrid herself? A doll. Always ready with tips, and never in the way.
Meanwhile, my friends took over Le 1500, a 12th-century building transformed into a boutique haven by retired businessman-turned-artist 58 year old Michael F. Rumsby and his husband, Lee McNeal.
Every room is a curated mix of antiques and art. A history room and library invite slow afternoons. Outside, the walled garden hides a pool, bar, and dining terrace that in summer becomes an event space — open-air films, long-table dinners, and the infamous Bad Boys Burger Night.
Our first evening was spent at Mélange, a family-run restaurant with stone walls, castle views, and a menu that changes weekly. Owners Melanie and Charlie are culinary magicians — especially for those of us with “difficult” diets. My pescatarian self and vegan friends were both spoiled.
If I ever marry, it will be at Château Lestevenie.
Owners Petrie and Jaco, both South Africans trained in the Stellenbosch winelands, host Summer Soirées so perfect they feel scripted: live jazz, vineyard sunsets, and rotating menus of Mexican, Indian, and French cuisine — all paired with their own sparkling Lestevenie Brut.
Just a short stroll from the village, Château Fayolle offers 130 acres of vines and woodland, plus terrace lunches that must be pre-ordered.
Wine here is history: since 1254, Saussignac and Bergerac bottles have graced Europe’s finest tables. Today, owners Frank and Riki Campbell are taking it global.
Some in our group opted for Château des Vigiers — a blend of fairways, fine dining, and château glamour between Bergerac and Saint-Émilion. It’s home to a championship golf course, a Michelin-starred restaurant, and a choice between historic suites or sleek relais rooms.
Saussignac isn’t about ticking off sights. It’s about strolling past shuttered stone houses, tasting wine under vine-laced terraces, and lingering until the sky blushes.
Bring a car — taxis are rare and expensive. Pre-book meals and flag any dietary quirks in advance. And then? Let the place work its quiet magic.
“By the end of the week my body was lighter, my mind calmer, my soul recharged.”
If You Go
Best time to visit: May–September for warm evenings and vineyard events. Getting there: British Airways (London City) and Ryanair (Stansted) fly direct to Bergerac. Car hire essential. Don’t miss: Mélange for dinner, Château Lestevenie’s Summer Soirée, Château Fayolle’s terrace lunch. Pack for: Lazy afternoons, lingering dinners, and the urge to never leave.
Re[Sens] Skincare Arrives at MINX: Kensington’s Most Exclusive Beauty Destination
London, UK – [Date] – The secret to radiant, effortlessly flawless skin has arrived. Re[Sens], the disruptive luxury skincare brand adored by beauty insiders, is now available exclusively at MINX, the elegant beauty sanctuary in the heart of Kensington.
Blending science with indulgence, Re[Sens] was born from a singular vision: to correct the overlooked flaws in traditional skincare. Each formula is powered by a high-performance fusion of anti-inflammatory and anti-ageing actives, meticulously designed to neutralise harmful water—a hidden skin aggressor present in countless beauty routines. The result is skin that feels instantly soothed, deeply hydrated, and illuminated from within.
Already hailed by leading beauty editors, one signature product in the collection has earned the coveted label “better than Botox”—a testament to its transformative power.
For those with Celtic skin, prone to persistent redness and sensitivity, Re[Sens] is nothing short of revolutionary. Its formulas calm, balance, and even out tone in ways that foundation simply cannot, revealing a complexion that is naturally luminous and picture-perfect.
From silky serums for youthful and oily complexions to indulgent, peptide-rich creams for mature skin, every product in the range delivers measurable, visible results. The anti-ageing line in particular has gained a loyal following among high-profile clients. Television presenter and author Wendy Turner Webster credits the range with a remarkable improvement in her skin—so much so that she is often asked if she has had cosmetic treatments.
Wendy Turner Webster a huge fan of Re Sens
“We are delighted to bring Re[Sens] to MINX, a place that embodies sophistication, expertise, and excellence,” says a spokesperson for Re[Sens]. “The team’s dedication to personalised beauty experiences perfectly complements our mission to deliver skincare that doesn’t just promise results—it delivers them.”
At MINX, the experience is as indulgent as the results. Kensington’s most discerning clientele can enjoy bespoke skincare consultations from expert therapists trained in the Re[Sens] philosophy. Every visit is a journey—one where clients leave not only with extraordinary products, but with the knowledge to transform their skincare routine forever.
This exclusive collaboration between Re[Sens] and MINX invites Londoners to indulge in the ultimate skincare luxury: scientifically perfected formulas, beautifully presented, and trusted by those who expect nothing less than exceptional.
Discover the difference at MINX, where beauty is not just enhanced—it is redefined.
For more information or to explore the complete Re[Sens] collection, visit: 🔗 MINX Beauty 🔗 Imagine You
“Blondes have more fun”. But in this current heat wave the sun can strip your colour and take you from a cool blonde to a brassy one in just one outing to the seaside! Rushing to get that toner in the salon can be costly. However, armed with Waterman’s violet shampoo and conditioner, you can remove those unwanted yellow tones without an extra salon visit between your normal appointments. Be careful how long you leave the conditioner on as, depending on how cool you want your hair to look, five minutes should be enough. Watermans also do a great range of hair care for thinning or fine hair.
Vegan friendly, this collagen moisturiser has a sun factor of 25 and tightens the skin.
With ingredients like Argon oil and shea butter it may be a little on the pricey side, but fans of Crème de la Mer might find it a cheaper alternative.
Jeunvie is a favourite range amongst cosmetic doctors. Asal Shirazi created the range with the vision of keeping it as close to nature as possible. For men, I just love the moisturiser to shave with too.
A must have in this heat, it has absolutely no cholesterol – this is in addition to being a low-calorie drink.
Coconut water is identical to blood plasma. In World War II and even today in very rare cases in countries, coconut water has saved lives by being used as an intravenous hydration fluid instead of the standard IV fluid. Despite being naturally sweet, it is extremely low in sugars. It is low in sodium compared to energy drinks, and high in chloride compared to sports drinks. It regulates and controls the body’s temperature and boosts the immune system.
It boosts your metabolism, which is an important step in a person’s weight loss process.
It is a natural isotonic beverage, i.e. is the perfect drink to rehydrate your body and replenish lost electrolytes.
It cleanses and settles the digestive tract by actively killing intestinal worms, which makes for easier digestion and less chance of digestive illness. Coconut water controls vomiting, making it extremely important for those suffering from ailments that cause vomiting like typhoid, malaria, or fevers. If you are summer partying, coconut water is a must for that hangover.
If you, your man or anyone wants to smell that extra bit classy, you cannot go wrong with my secret weapon Perfums-De Marly. I adore Layton Exclusif from the brand designed for the male, but in this day and age anyone can wear it. It might seem a little pricey, but keep it for those special occasions when you want to stand out.
It is a rich and woody fragrance and will make an impression. Top notes of bergamot, grapefruit, and apple softly envelop the heart of cinnamon, lavender, agarwood, and geranium. The base is concluded by guaiac wood, sensual vanilla and sweet cypriol. A revival on the traditional, yet refined in its scent.
Yes — Steven’s Viewz is back, and this month’s edition is bursting with variety, insight, and just the right dose of controversy! As always, Steven brings his unique voice and unfiltered perspective to the table, tackling topics that range from the deeply thought-provoking to the wonderfully unexpected.
This issue explores everything from equality in marriage — reminding us how far we’ve come and how far we still have to go — to the growing interest in magic mushrooms and their potential benefits in mental health treatment. It’s bold, it’s current, and it’s never afraid to ask the uncomfortable questions.
Farage and the Marriage Debate
Laure Ferrari with Nigel charming lady .
If you’re wondering whether the Reform Party under Nigel Farage might take a stance against the LGBTQ+ community, you may not have to look very far. A closer glance at Farage’s voting record reveals that he once voted against same-sex marriage—a move that speaks volumes about his social and political outlook.
This position seems somewhat ironic, given Farage’s own colourful marital history. Having been through two failed marriages himself, one might imagine he’d be a little more open-minded—or at the very least, more humble—when it comes to other people’s right to marry. Love, after all, comes in many forms, and marriage is a deeply personal choice that should be available to all consenting adults, regardless of gender or sexual orientation.
I had the chance to meet Farage briefly once, and I’ll say this: his current partner, Laure Ferrari, is a charming and intelligent woman. But perhaps Farage would be better served reflecting on his own relationship history before trying to legislate who can and cannot get married. A man who has struggled to sustain long-term commitments might want to tread lightly before denying others the right to even try.
If Farage is basing his stance on traditional or biblical values—as he often implies—then perhaps he should revisit those same values in the mirror. The Bible, after all, says a great deal about humility, compassion, and loving thy neighbour—principles that seem to get conveniently overlooked in his rhetoric. Selective morality has never made for good leadership, and voters are waking up to that.
Farage often touts his children as a source of pride, and no doubt he is a dedicated father. One of his children is an outspoken supporter of Donald Trump, which tells you a great deal about the household dynamic and political leanings. That said, it’s good to hear that despite having had testicular cancer, he’s clearly not firing blanks.
Isabelle Farage did an internship in Washington DC
While loyalty to family is admirable, it doesn’t excuse positions that marginalise entire communities or strip people of their rights in the name of so-called tradition. It’s worth asking: what kind of future does the Reform Party really envision? A society where love is judged and legislated? Where equality is rationed out depending on who fits into a narrow, outdated mould? The UK has made great strides in LGBTQ+ rights, and going backwards is not what people want—or need.
In the end, Farage’s views on marriage may say more about him than they do about society at large. Rather than acting as the moral gatekeeper, perhaps it’s time he looked inward and asked himself why love between two people—regardless of gender—should ever be up for debate.
Love is love. And no politician, no matter how many headlines they chase, should have the power to decide otherwise.
I think it’s safe to say that no one will be rushing to give Erin Patterson — the so-called “mushroom murderer” — a job in the prison kitchen anytime soon. The tragic case has cast a long shadow over what has always seemed like a fairly harmless food.
Come to think of it, all my wonderful vegan friends who create amazing mushroom-based dishes might find me double-checking what varieties they’re actually using from now on! Mushrooms truly are one of nature’s wonders — packed with nutrients, flavour, and even potential healing properties. In fact, magic mushrooms (when used in microdosing) are showing promising results in mental health treatments, including anxiety, PTSD, and depression.
However, not all mushrooms are safe. Some look similar to edible varieties but are highly toxic, even deadly. It’s always best to source mushrooms from trusted suppliers or foragers who are fully trained in identification.
Death Cap mushrooms .
Here are a few of the most dangerous mushrooms to avoid:
Death Cap (Amanita phalloides)
Destroying Angel (Amanita virosa)
Funeral Bell (Galerina marginata)
Deadly Webcap (Cortinarius rubellus)
Panther Cap (Amanita pantherina)
False Morel (Gyromitra esculenta)
Mushrooms can nourish or kill — respect is key.
Driving me mad
Let’s make one thing clear: this is not a rant about women drivers. That said, there’s one male driver left such an impression that part of my heart still feels stranded in the Cotswolds — I’ve no idea how I survived that journey.
Now, one friend, bless her, assured me she had an advanced driving licence. This was just as we found ourselves parked in the central reservation, waiting for the next juggernaut to thunder past or into us I was gasping for air. “If I take the wrong one, it can be miles before I can turn back,” she said calmly — completely puzzled by my look of terror.
With the number of high-profile motorway deaths recently, I think I’m fully justified in being a back-seat driver. One friend drove with a small dog on her lap, a slurpy drink in one hand, and then decided it was the perfect time to apply lipstick. She seemed genuinely shocked when I wanted to get out of the car.
Taking a call while holding the phone in one hand should absolutely be illegal — and yet, some of my lady friends seem to do it as if it’s second nature. Zero awareness. Zero empathy.
One particularly playful argument — when I declined a Greggs coffee in favour of a Starbucks ” How can you afford that your broke ” — nearly ended in disaster, as the car narrowly missed a truck. When I instinctively threw my hands up onto the dashboard, I got snapped at: “That’s their fault — and if you keep doing that, you can get out!”
Apparently I’m the difficult one. But when we finally reached one friend’s house, her daughter-in-law took one look at me and said, “How did you survive that? It’s a suicide mission waiting to happen.”
Another friend got a ticket (thankfully not while I was in the car).
With drones now being used to catch drivers holding phones, drinks, or simply not holding the wheel — well, I say: bring it on!
Happily Ever After
The gorgeous couple Mel B and Rory McPhee
It’s lovely to finally see some heartwarming news in the papers for a change! Scary Spice herself — the fabulous Mel B — has officially tied the knot with her long-time partner, Rory McPhee. He’s a professional hairdresser, and from the photos, they both looked absolutely gorgeous on their big day. There was an effortless glamour about them, and Mel B radiated happiness.
After everything Mel has been through in her personal life, it’s refreshing to see her smiling, looking confident, and surrounded by love. The wedding seemed like something straight out of a modern-day fairytale — intimate, stylish, and full of joy. I really hope that, just like in the stories, this marks the beginning of a “happily ever after” for the couple.
It’s easy to forget that celebrities are real people, with real hopes, heartbreaks, and dreams. Mel has always been a bold, outspoken figure, and her resilience over the years is truly inspiring. Seeing her find love again is a reminder that there’s always hope — no matter what life throws at us.
Here’s to new beginnings, lasting happiness, and a bit of Spice Girls sparkle. Congratulations, Mel and Rory — wishing you a lifetime of love and laugher .
Once upon a time, in the heart of a mystical French village called Saussignac, lived a magical little boy named Malachi. He had recently moved into a grand, enchanted house nestled among endless vineyards, and from the moment he arrived, he knew it was no ordinary place.
Malachi loved his new home. It was full of secrets, with winding corridors and hidden rooms yet to be discovered. He spent his days with his loyal friends: Frankie, the bouncy dog; Bob, the wise old retriever; Charlie, the unimpressed three-legged cat; and his cheeky imaginary companion, Popo le Tech, who was always up to mischief.
The garden outside was wild and overgrown, with brambles and weeds as tall as trees. Though far too messy for playing, it was filled with mystery. Beyond it stretched miles of golden vineyards, rustling in the summer breeze.
One sunny afternoon, as Malachi gazed out of his bedroom window, he spotted something peculiar—a boy in their garden! He was digging furiously, as though searching for something hidden deep underground.
“Look! What is that boy doing in our garden?” Malachi cried.
Bob lifted his head, let out an excited little fart, and barked at Frankie, “Let’s go see!” The two dogs bounded downstairs like furry cannonballs.
Charlie, curled on the windowsill, stretched lazily. “Dogs,” he muttered. “So dramatic.”
Malachi dashed downstairs, accidentally knocking into Grandma Nanson, who was mid-yoga pose.
“Take your shoes off before you come back in!” she huffed from her Downward Dog pose.
Popo le Tech bounced over her with a giggle. “Keep your hair on, Gran!” he called, pulling a silly face that made everyone laugh—except Charlie, who just rolled his eyes.
Outside, the boy in ragged clothes continued to dig.
“That’s our garden!” Malachi shouted.
The boy spun around, startled. He was pale and thin, his eyes hollow.
“Please,” he said softly. “Help me.”
Bob gently licked the boy’s hand, then turned to fetch Grandma—but the boy raised his hand. “No,” he whispered. “Only you can see me.”
Malachi’s eyes widened. “Who are you?”
“My name is Paul,” the boy said. “I lived here, many years ago. My family was happy… until the pirates came.”
“Pirates?” Malachi gasped.
“Yes. They came one night—led by the evillest pirate of all, Captain Steven, and his cruel second-in-command, Smithers. They stole everything. Even the birthday cake my mum baked for my gran’s seventy-eighth!”
“They locked up the grown-ups and kidnapped the children, forcing us to work on their dreadful ship.”
Malachi’s mouth dropped open.
“Only Grandma escaped,” Paul added with a grin. “She talked so much they dropped her off ten villages away to get some peace!”
Frankie barked with amusement.
“My best friend, Le Tech, and I snuck into their supply cart and found a chest of gold—more treasure than you can imagine. We buried it right here, in this garden. One day, we hoped to return and throw a feast for the whole village.”
“But… you didn’t come back?” Malachi asked.
“We were caught,” Paul said grimly. “Le Tech was made to walk the plank. I was spared, but I spent years as their prisoner.”
Now Paul looked desperate. “Captain Steven is coming back—with a new crew of horrors, including One-Eyed John, who’s rumoured to eat pets! We must find the gold before they do. But no grown-ups can know. And definitely not the cat.”
Charlie sniffed indignantly. “Charming.”
“If the treasure is returned to the villagers,” Paul continued, “a magical fairy will appear to drive the pirates away—and reunite the families they took.”
Malachi glanced at the kitchen window. Grandma Nanson was now wearing a green face mask and fussing about sand on the floor.
He looked back at Paul—and then at his brave companions. They all nodded.
“Alright,” Malachi said. “We’ll find the gold and save the village.”
Popo le Tech did a backflip and whooped, “Adventure time!”
And so, under the Saussignac sun, a magical boy, two loyal dogs, a reluctant cat, a mischievous imaginary friend, and a boy from the past began their quest…
Part Two: The Pirate Gardeners
The next morning, Malachi awoke to golden sunlight streaming across his bedroom floor. He stretched and yawned. Outside, Popo le Tech was already playing with Bob and Frankie.
“I want you to meet someone,” she said, waving them over.
Standing behind her were two large men in muddy boots and overalls.
“These are the new gardeners,” Grandma explained.
The men turned. One wore a wide-brimmed hat and had eyes like ice.
“I’m Mr Steven,” he said. “Would you like to walk the—uh—plank? I mean, some sweets?”
“No thanks,” Malachi said quickly.
The second man stepped forward. “I’m John,” he grinned, licking his lips as he looked at the pets. “What delicious—I mean, what cuddly animals.”
The dogs growled. Even Charlie hissed.
“No children in the garden,” Mr Steven snapped. “We’re digging it all up.”
“Why?” Malachi asked.
“For your grandma’s birthday surprise,” John said. “Is she turning seventy-six by any chance?”
“I’m thirty-nine!” Grandma snapped. “Honestly!”
Later, when the “gardeners” weren’t looking, Paul pulled Malachi aside.
“It’s them,” he whispered. “The pirates. They’re back.”
“We have to find the treasure before they do,” said Malachi. “And protect the fairy.”
“The gold is under this house,” said Le Tech, appearing beside them. “The pirates must’ve found one of the old maps.”
“But how do we reach it?” Paul asked.
“We’ll need a map of the house,” said Malachi. “And we must find a way underneath.”
The children and pets slipped out the back door unnoticed. The race had begun.
Meanwhile, behind the hedge, Mr Steven scowled.
“That boy knows something.”
“We should tie up the gran and torture her with a curling iron,” John hissed. “Make Malachi walk the plank!”
“And the pets?”
“Eat them!” John cackled.
“Not yet,” Steven growled. “First we get the gold.”
Part Three: The Fairy Awakens
“Oh no,” said Gran, wearing a green beauty mask to look extra pretty for her birthday. “The garden’s not looking very good.”
She leaned out of the window and called to the gardeners, “I don’t think this is right! Can you come in to discuss it?”
John looked shocked as he stared with his one good eye.
“It’s a hideous sea witch!” he screamed.
“Just act natural,” said Captain Steve, giving a wink. “It’s only that overly chatty Gran.”
As they came inside, Gran—being kind—offered them some water but insisted they take off their shoes.
This was a big mistake.
Not only did their feet stink, but their socks were full of holes—and worms crawled out of their boots onto the clean floor.
Gran screamed. “My lovely floors!”
Then she noticed something even worse. The floorboards near the kitchen sink were starting to lift.
She couldn’t believe it. “What on earth is going on?”
“Get her!” barked Captain Steve. “Tie her to the chair and gag her to shut her up. We’ll send her miles away where no one can hear her complaining. Or feed her to the sharks!”
John was only too happy to oblige. Gran put up a good fight and managed to cover him in green slime, but he tied her to a white chair in the living room, took off his stinky sock, and shoved it in Gran’s mouth.
Part Four: The Midnight Dig
That night, all was still.
Suddenly, sparkles of light danced across Malachi’s bedroom. Bob farted with surprise and nudged Frankie awake.
Malachi opened his eyes. “Look!”
A beautiful fairy floated before them. “I am Mirabella,” she said. “You’ve done well, brave Malachi. The treasure lies under the kitchen wall. Dig, and my spirit will be released—and the villagers will be free.”
“I’m too small to dig,” Malachi whispered.
“We’ll help,” said Charlie with a sigh. “No one ever lets a cat rest!”
Mirabella sprinkled fairy dust over them all. They hurried to the garden, guided by her light.
Part Five: Victory
Captain Steven was furious. “We’ll make Malachi scrub the decks forever! Let’s find that gold!”
Suddenly, the floorboards burst open with a blast of golden light.
Out came Malachi, Bob, Frankie, Charlie—and the glowing treasure chest.
“It’s okay, Gran,” Malachi said, untying her. “We’ve found the gold. And those aren’t gardeners—they’re pirates!”
The pirates screamed and began evaporating into thin air.
“I’ll be back!” Captain Steven howled.
The garden filled with glowing spirits—the villagers the pirates had once taken. They smiled at Malachi.
“Thank you,” said Paul and Le Tech. “We can rest now.”
Mirabella hovered above them. “Call my name three times if ever you need me.”
And with that, she vanished into the stars.
Epilogue
Later that day, Malachi’s mums returned.
“Terrible gardeners,” one muttered. “They’ve wrecked the garden.”
“Mum, we met pirates! And a fairy! And I found gold!”
“What an imagination,” they laughed.
That night, as Malachi drifted off to sleep, he looked under his pillow.
‘Fag hag’ or beard is a gay slang phrase referring to women who associate generally or exclusively with gay or bisexual men. But you knew that already, didn’t you?
Now, I hate labels of any kind, but when a woman tells me, “I love the gays,” my toes curl. Even my nephew, at thirteen, was smart enough not to fall for that one. “They’re just like everyone else—good and bad,” he shrewdly pointed out. It’s funny in Ab Fab when Edina blurts out, “All my friends are gay.” Oh, the irony.
However, women who proudly label themselves as fag hags often raise serious red flags. I’ve heard it too many times: “Other women just don’t get me, but you and the gay guys do.” This is usually followed by something about liking bad boys in bed. That’s nice for them. Me? I want to be liked for who I am—not for my sexuality or a label.
On my first visit to a gay club—New York’s Limelight—I noticed lots of model-type women dancing. My friend said, “They feel safe here. They can dance and not get hit on.” It wasn’t long before straight men caught onto this and started frequenting the more glamorous gay venues. One night, I was with a group of guys when a stunning girl approached and said, “So sad you’re all gay. I’d f*** the lot of you!”
A little voice piped up, “I’m straight.” It was my pal who, though he leads the way in gay fashion, is 100% straight. Many men have tried their luck with him—the lady and him were in a taxi home minutes later.
Elizabeth Taylor. Wowza.
She loved the company of gay men—from Rock Hudson to Tab Hunter and Montgomery Clift—calling them her confidants. Tallulah Bankhead, when she wasn’t famously trying to sleep with gay men, preferred their company too. Even Mary Queen of Scots liked to quote the pretty men.
As for me—I just like people. It just so happens many of my closest friends are women: glamorous, powerful, and fabulous. But none of them would call themselves fag hags. With them, I’m still the old-fashioned gent: opening doors, walking roadside on the pavement, even pulling out chairs. Though some of these women try to lead while dancing—and pull out my chair instead.
Despite having my picture taken for a dating site, I’m no further along in love. One of my rocks, Liz Branson, is on the phone from her New York office. She splits her time between there, Dubai, and London.
“Have you done it?” she asks. Trying to change the subject, I ask when she’s next in London. There’s a pause.
“You haven’t,” she snaps, irritated. Then she barks: “Jo Allen’s. Tuesday. 9:30.” She doesn’t wait to see if I’m free—and hangs up. Ten minutes later, she texts: “If you are free, can you book it?”
Liz is great fun—always right, obsessively so at times. That’s part of what makes her successful, alluring, and fascinating. She’s also always late, often with some story. The truth? It takes her half an hour to oil her body so it glistens. That’s just part of her prep to go out. Despite her brass balls in business and her ability to crush high-powered men, she still likes to be every inch the high-maintenance woman.
She’s my Grace—as in Will & Grace. But it’s a myth that all women “get” gay men just because they hang out with us. Even women who say, “I’m a gay man trapped in a woman’s body,” can be shockingly naive.
The brilliant Will and Grace
A long-time friend recently remarked, after a theatre visit, that I’d loved the show because it had five scantily dressed young men. As pretty as they were, they left me sexually cold. She must’ve missed the memo—none of my boyfriends have been under 40.
My best gay mate knows that the cast of Peaky Blinders or Colin Farrell gets my pulse racing. Teen boys? They’re like watching Dita Von Teese dance—entertaining, but that’s all. This same friend once asked, “Why would you want to give head rather than take?” Well…
Peaky Blinders Top Men
Liz, for the record, didn’t really know any gay men before me—aside from one man who lived with her as straight and came out later. I think she assumed we all came from the same mould. She even rushed into another relationship with a gay man who promptly took her to gay bars and more.
Personally, I think friendships should be mutual. I’m fine in straight bars, and when I do visit gay bars, it’s usually for dinner or an event. Once, Liz called whispering: “I’m on Clapham Common.” Thinking there was a concert, I asked what was on. “No,” she replied, “I’m cruising with— Have you done this?” I nearly screamed. That was a step too far. That relationship ended when the guy tried to seduce Liz’s then-husband.
It wasn’t the first time I heard of women going cruising with gay men. My former boss was in a Freedom cab once when the driver said he was dropping condoms off at Hampstead Heath. She piped up, “Oh, I’ve been there!” Her gay friends had taken her. This phenomenon passed me by. I don’t cruise—it’s scary. And as broad-minded as I am, why would you take a woman?
Colin Farrell a dream .
Anyway—Liz is late again. She’s texted multiple times, blaming an Uber driver, a lion escaping from Regent’s Park Zoo, and a fire at a local orphanage. But when she finally arrives, she looks spectacular, and the whole restaurant turns to stare. Liz waves, hair glossy, eyes sparkling.
She’s now vegan—though she was already a nightmare in restaurants. After sending an omelette back four times once, I took a photo of the “perfect” omelette and handed it to the waiter the next day. She wasn’t amused—but it was funny.
Back to the evening. Only one waiter and one chef resigned since she placed her order—kidding. I suggest popping to Tesco for the soya sauce she insists on. That goes down like a lead balloon, as usual. She has everyone fussing over her.
There’s the usual gossip: a gorgeous executive she went skinny dipping with in Dubai (amazing in bed—15 years younger—is that too much?). Then, yet again, she brings up Darryl, the best sex of her life, who turned out to be a complete asshole. I’ve heard about him 90 times.
The good thing about Liz—she’s no energy vampire. She wants to know about you. Unfortunately, she’s fixated on my love life. She thinks my best pal and I should be together. “Why aren’t you with someone?” she asks.
People often miss this: gay men can have purely platonic friendships with other gay men. Of course, I love my best mate—but I have no plans to marry him. I joke, “Fine. I’ll propose next week.” Liz screams and wants champagne—until I admit I’m joking. Her face falls (as much as it can, post-Botox).
We laugh, drink, and just when I think we’re winding down, Liz insists we head to Old Compton Street. “Why?” I ask. She loves G-A-Y, apparently. But my gut tells me she’s obsessing about finding me a fella. I suggest Radio Bar instead. Blank look.
There’s no queue at G-A-Y. Inside, Liz grabs a drink and immediately turns into Cilla Black, introducing me to random men. “Who do you like?” she shouts. I feel like a rabbit in the headlights. “I’ll be discreet,” she yells. “I’m all good, thanks,” I say, hugging her.
She dances with drag queens and shouts, “I’m a gay icon!” Naturally, they all agree. She’s no Madonna or Judy, but for one night—she was. It was actually quite sweet.
Flushed with her success, we head to Rupert Street to meet a friend. Her one-woman show goes down well there too. I brief her beforehand not to mention dating him. She thinks he’s too young, so I’m safe.
Then Liz starts chatting to the handsome doorman—who’s straight and married. He calls me over: “Why don’t you take your girlfriend somewhere she can meet a man?” I grin. “She wanted to come here—not me.”
Who says she couldn’t meet a man there? My sister had a holiday romance with a gay club manager in Key West. Another female friend married a bartender from a gay bar.
So, Liz and I are still happily single—but watch this space for more
I hear many of you saying that in these bizarre and often crazy times. You could be forgiven for wondering if the great God (if you believe in such an entity) might reach down and reply, “Sure! Will you be paying for that in crypto, Bitcoin, or the old-fashioned pound?” He may even offer you one of His NFT-signed art posters, promising that once you re-join Earth, it will have quadrupled in value—guaranteeing your return comes with a bang and, most certainly, millionaire status… well, in crypto land, at least. Just as Alice drops through a hole in search of it all.
Let’s give some extra love for Tracey Emin’s Digital Editions.
Well, I found myself asking what an NFT is last year. I keep hearing it mentioned at events and parties. A friend visiting LA called and said, “Darling, you’re no one here if you’re not into NFTs or crypto.” Cue the sinking feeling—like when someone tries to sell me a multi-level marketing scheme. “People felt the same about stamps when they started,” she added.
Fair point. Our great-grans kept money under the mattress after losing trust in banks during the Great Depression of 1929. And let’s not even get started on Lehman Brothers filing for bankruptcy in 2008, leaving people penniless and robbed of their life savings.
NFT (Non-Fungible Token) is a record on a blockchain associated with a particular digital or physical asset. Ownership is recorded and transferable via the blockchain, making NFTs something that can be sold or traded.
So what is an NFT in relation to art? An NFT is a digital asset that exists purely in the digital world—you can’t touch it, but you can own it. It can take the form of any digital file: an artwork, an article, music, or even a meme. For instance, Disaster Girl, the original photo, sold for $500K earlier this year.
Disaster Girl original photo sold as an NFT for $500k
But is it the emperor’s new clothes? For every artist who champions NFT art, there are others who won’t touch this new way of trading. Boy George has opened his own digital platform: www.cryptoqueenznft.com. Though he hasn’t sold through auction houses like Sotheby’s or Christie’s, his work has fetched significant sums at charity events—and he certainly has talent. Tracey Emin has also joined the NFT art scene alongside several well-known artists. But many remain firmly against it.
In Business of Business, a piece titled Artists Against NFT quoted Zilch, an Atlanta-based artist: “Personally, I’m against NFTs. However, we have to acknowledge that the system exists. It still requires regulation—it’s not a free-for-all, unmoderated space where all hell breaks loose. Systems get made, systems get abused, then they get regulated.”
London saw its first NFT gallery, Quantus Gallery, open earlier this year. The star-studded launch featured Ant Middleton, makeup model Jodie Kidd, and the dashing Callum Best, mingling with socialites, City boys, and what looked like would-be Kray brothers. It was a glamorous and eclectic crowd—and the buzz was undeniable.
Art is subjective, and let’s not forget where the term con artist comes from. A brilliant salesman can sell snow to an Eskimo. It’s the same with paintings. Remember ART, the award-winning play? Serge, indulging his taste for modern art, buys an expensive, completely white painting. Marc is horrified. Their friendship unravels over what constitutes “art,” while Yvan tries to play peacemaker. Art, ultimately, is what you decide it is.
Every wise boy seems to be dipping into crypto. I’m absolutely convinced that, like in multi-level marketing, some will make a mint—and others will get burnt. At one point, my inbox was flooded with “get rich with crypto or Bitcoin” invitations. I nearly joined one, as many top business names were involved. But during the meeting, it became clear they were investing in… well, something that wasn’t quite there. “We’re hoping to get Adele and Tom Cruise involved,” they said. Apparently, people will pay thousands to sit at a computer in NFT sunglasses. I guess people have spent fortunes on dressing up avatars in virtual games for years. It certainly helped the Kardashians build their portfolio.
But when I asked what Adele’s or Tom Cruise’s agents thought of all this, the answers were vague. It was clearly a wish list. I followed my instinct and said: “No, thank you.” A year later, despite the impressive credentials of its founders, the venture has gone nowhere.
There’s definitely a strong element of the hard sell from NFT enthusiasts. Personally, I’d still take the advice of my financial advisors and avoid anything with a gambling edge—especially if you have an addictive personality or can’t afford to lose. Most serious investors in high-end art use qualified advisors and buy through reputable auction houses or galleries that mentor their artists. They often request first refusal if the work is resold.
NFT art is certainly something to watch. If you have disposable income, then by all means—fill your boots. But in a volatile market, with crypto prices constantly swinging, it’s not something that helps me sleep at night.
I asked a woman who’s doing an incredible job promoting NFTs how she was paid. As she knocked back a glass of champagne, she replied: “God, money, darling!” That said it all to me.
Added Note: Buying Art as an Investment
Added Note: Buying Art as an Investment
When buying art as an investment, choose wisely. While some artists are natural-born salespeople—able to “sell snow to Eskimos,” as the saying goes—it’s important to remember that enthusiasm and charm are not guarantees of long-term value.
Be cautious when you hear the phrase “It sold at auction.” This often refers to a charity auction or fundraising dinner—not a prestigious sale at Christie’s or Sotheby’s. There is a significant difference between these venues in terms of how the sale reflects on an artwork’s market value and provenance.
Reputable artists are usually represented by established and well-known galleries for a reason. These galleries not only help manage the artist’s career but also serve to protect the integrity and long-term value of their work. Many of them will request first refusal if you ever decide to resell the artwork, helping maintain consistency and trust in the secondary market.
Serious collectors often work with art consultants or experts to guide their purchases—again, to protect the investment’s value. There are always exceptions in the art world, of course, but if you’re not properly informed or protected, and an artist has persuaded you their work is worth £50,000, don’t be surprised or disappointed if, when it comes time to resell, it turns out not to be worth the canvas it’s painted on.
Art should be enjoyed and loved, but if you’re buying with investment in mind, do your homework—and seek trusted advice.
