Among the many remarkable talents emerging from Britain’s vibrant and ever-evolving music scene, there are rare artists who make you stop, listen, and instantly want to know more. Those moments are special. They are the moments when you sense that something extraordinary is unfolding.
Recently, I had one of those momentswith MEEK, the Brixton-born singer who is quietly, and confidently, carving out her own space in pop music. One listen to her debut single, Fabulous, and I found myself putting down my latte and leaning in closer, eager to discover the voice behind the sound.
Fabulous, taken from her debut EP, is more than just an introduction—it is a statement of intent. From the very first notes, MEEK announces herself as an artist who understands exactly who she is and what she wants to express. Her voice is clear, confident, and emotionally resonant, drawing listeners in with effortless charm. There is a richness to her tone that feels both contemporary and timeless, blending modern pop sensibilities with classic showmanship.
Beyond her vocal talent, MEEK possesses something far rarer: presence. She commands attention without trying too hard. There is humour in her delivery, intelligence in her lyrics, and a distinctive style that makes her impossible to ignore. Watching her perform, you don’t simply hear a song—you experience a personality. Every gesture, expression, and note feels intentional, crafted to connect with her audience.
It would be easy to label her “the British Lady Gaga,” and while there are certainly echoes of boldness, theatricality, and fearless self-expression, such a comparison is ultimately limiting. MEEK is not following in anyone’s footsteps. She has developed her own musical identity—one that blends pop, performance, and personality into something refreshingly original. Her songs feel deeply personal yet universally relatable, celebrating individuality while inviting everyone along for the journey.
What also stands out is her natural ability to create joy. Her music is uplifting without being shallow, playful without losing depth. Fabulous is not just an anthem of confidence; it is a reminder that embracing who you are can be both powerful and fun. In an industry often driven by trends and formulas, MEEK’s authenticity feels like a breath of fresh air.
Crucially, she embodies the qualities of a modern pop icon: inclusivity, self-belief, creativity, and courage. She speaks to a generation that values honesty and representation, and she does so with glamour, wit, and heart. It is no surprise that many already see her as a potential LGBTQ+ icon in the making.
With her talent, charisma, and clear artistic vision, MEEK is not just another promising newcomer—she is an artist with global potential. If Fabulous is any indication of what lies ahead, this is only the beginning of a remarkable journey. The world should pay attention. A star is rising, and her name is MEEK.
“God Save the Queen of Fashion: Vivienne Westwood”
Back in London after several years in Los Angeles, my dear friend, the late journalist Lester Middlehurst, could not wait to take me out on the London party scene. It was all a little overwhelming on our first outing — the launch of Naomi Campbell’s first album.
As we pushed through the excitable crowd onto the red carpet, Lester whispered, “You’re not actually invited. I only have one invite — we’ll just blag you in.” In true Lester style, blag me in he did, leaving my face as red as the carpet and my hands shaking. Blagging is not my forte, and I stood there clutching my glass of champagne, feeling far less confident than I looked.
It felt like I was the only person among the assembled celebrity guests I had never heard of.
My nerves were soon eased when a lovely woman with a soft Yorkshire accent asked, “How are you tonight? You look great.” It was none other than the wonderful and grounded Vivienne Westwood.
Unlike many of the politely named “meerkats” I encountered over the years — people constantly looking over your shoulder to see if someone more important had arrived — Vivienne was genuinely interested. When I told her I’d owned a pair of her bondage trousers at just seventeen, she laughed and listened. Several people tried to interrupt us, and she politely told them she was talking to me.
That first London social event is one I will never forget, thanks to Vivienne.
With her down-to-earth, no-nonsense charm, she didn’t just change fashion — she changed how we saw designers. Outrageous, camp, fun, and fearless, she was arguably the woman we all wished could be our friend.
In my teens, I once took my mum for a treat day out to King’s Road when I was sixteen. We sat opposite the famous shop Sex, run by Vivienne and Malcolm McLaren. My mum was not ready for the vibe. Spotting what she thought was a giant tampon in the window, she let out a small scream — and that was the end of our day out.
Whether telling Kate Moss that she’d fancy her if she were gay, challenging older generations with “We don’t accept your values,” promoting the Green Party, stripping for PETA, or mocking then–Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher on the cover of Tatler, Vivienne was never afraid to stand on the front line.
Her origins lay in slogan T-shirts. With Malcolm, she designed provocative clothing that led to prosecution under the 1959 Obscene Publications Act. They responded by rebranding the shop, and later opening Seditionaries. Around the same time, the Sex Pistols — managed by Malcolm — released God Save the Queen, a chart-topper banned by the BBC.
Punk was born, and Vivienne led it.
Long before “fifty shades” became fashionable, she brought taboo, fetish, and fantasy into mainstream culture. She inspired artists like Madonna and helped people express themselves boldly through clothing.
Despite her anti-establishment views, she became one of the world’s top designers. She won Fashion Designer of the Year in 1990 and 1991 from the British Fashion Council. She received an OBE from Queen Elizabeth II in 1992 and was made a Dame in 2006.
In 1992, she introduced wedding gowns into her collections. One of her designs famously appeared in Sex and the City, when Mr Big gifts Carrie her dress.
It shocked many when her death was announced in December 2022 — and that this ageless woman was 81. She passed away peacefully, surrounded by family, in Clapham, South London.
Many people enter this world hoping to leave their mark. The soft-spoken Yorkshire girl left her mark on everyone she met — and an indelible stamp on global fashion.
The Pam Barbie — she doesn’t age. Ask her a question and she’ll never reply with a simple yes or no. Instead, she’ll tell you she won’t get in the gutter with you, then rant about something else entirely. She never apologises. Comes with her own pen and your search history. Say the word Trump to her and she’ll squeak and get most… animated. Extra lashes not included. 💄
Do not forget two more in the set
ICE ICE BABY BARBIE
Throw myself on the cross for Trump Press Barbie
WARNING NOT SUITABLE FOR PEOPLE WITH COMMON SCENSE , OR WHO UNDERSTAND EMPATHY OR ARE PART OF GROUP THAT DOES NOT BOW DOWN TO TRUMP.
Give Me a Break: Why Jim Ratcliffe Shouldn’t Have to Apologise for Speaking His Mind
Give me a break. Jim Ratcliffe should never have been asked to apologise simply for saying what he thinks. You may not agree with him — and that’s perfectly fine — but he is entitled to express his views. That is how debate works. Someone speaks, others respond, and through discussion we decide where we stand. Silencing people helps no one.
The Monaco-based Manchester United co-owner has faced anger from politicians and football fans over words branded “disgraceful.” But really, what he did is what many of us do when we are frustrated: he spoke honestly. He didn’t dress his feelings up in polite clichés or empty phrases. He said what he meant.
Most of us are experts in polite dishonesty. “With all due respect” often means “I completely disagree with you. or F—U ” “That was pleasant” usually means “that was awful.” And “I’m sorry if you were offended” is perhaps the most passive-aggressive phrase of all. Anyone with a bit of intelligence knows it isn’t a real apology — it’s a way of avoiding responsibility while appearing polite.
We have become obsessed with forcing public figures into rehearsed apologies. They are expected to grovel, backtrack, and apologise for having opinions. Often, these apologies are meaningless. They are written by advisers, polished by PR teams, and delivered with no genuine feeling behind them.
We should be careful not to turn into a country where people are afraid to speak openly. Suppressing opinions does not make racism, homophobia, or prejudice disappear. It simply pushes those views into the shadows, where they cannot be challenged or confronted. Open discussion, however uncomfortable, is far healthier than silence.
If someone chooses to apologise on their own terms, that is their right. But forcing an apology achieves nothing. Once people have spoken, we know who they are and what they believe. Then it is up to the rest of us to agree, disagree, challenge, or ignore them.
Free speech is not about comfort. It is about honesty. And we should defend it — even when we don’t like what is being said.
Take your mind of Andy . Mandy . Epstein a Trump came too . Beast Games is Great Viewing .
Thank God for the Winter Olympics and the latest instalment of Bridgerton. At times like this, they are exactly what we need — a welcome distraction from the endless cycle of headlines Andy, Mandy, Epstein, and Trump came too . Sadly, it’s not a children’s cartoon we can simply switch off and forget. This is real life, and sometimes it feels overwhelming.
Let’s not even go there with the innuendo. Some stories are so grim and uncomfortable that they leave you wishing for a remote control that could pause the world for a while. Instead, we scroll, we sigh, and we carry on, trying to protect our sanity as best we can.
That is why entertainment matters more than people realise. It isn’t shallow or pointless. It is a form of escape, a mental breather. Whether it’s athletes pushing themselves to the limit on icy slopes or glamorous characters sweeping through Regency ballrooms, these moments remind us that there is still beauty, talent, and creativity in the world.
And if you are looking for something fun and completely absorbing, look no further than Amazon Prime’s Beast Games. It is fast-paced, dramatic, and unapologetically entertaining. The challenges are outrageous, the stakes are high, and it is impossible not to get drawn in. It is the kind of programme that makes you forget your phone, your worries, and even the news for an hour or two.
Sometimes, switching off is not avoidance — it is survival. We cannot live in a constant state of outrage and anxiety. We need sport, drama, laughter, and even a bit of escapist nonsense to balance things out.
So yes, thank God for the Winter Olympics, Bridgerton, and shows like Beast Games. In a noisy, reedless world, they offer us something precious: a moment of peace.
In the ever-evolving landscape of British entertainment, certain personalities burst onto the scene with such warmth and authenticity that audiences instantly connect with them. One such figure is Joe Marler, whose transition from sporting hero to television favourite has been nothing short of remarkable. From rugby pitches to reality TV, and now into the world of podcasting, Marler has carved out a unique space — and his talk show, Will See You Now, is fast becoming one of the most talked-about formats in modern media.
For many viewers, Joe truly captured hearts during his appearance on The Traitors. By the end of the series, it was almost impossible not to develop something akin to a “man crush” on him. He emerged as everyone’s favourite dad, big brother, and loyal mate rolled into one — approachable, funny, and refreshingly honest.
What made Joe stand out was not just his gameplay, but his no-nonsense approach to life. He didn’t pretend to be someone he wasn’t. His humour was natural, his reactions genuine, and his emotional intelligence quietly impressive. In a show built on deception and suspicion, Joe’s openness felt like a breath of fresh air.
When the dramatic finale arrived and Joe was eliminated just short of victory, many viewers felt he had been unfairly “robbed.” Social media lit up with disappointment, with fans lamenting the loss of one of the show’s most likeable contestants. Yet, in typical Joe fashion, he handled defeat with grace and good humour — proving once again why audiences admired him so deeply.
Thankfully, The Traitors was far from the end of Joe’s television journey. Instead, it marked the beginning of something even more personal: his own talk show and podcast, Joe Marler Will See You Now.
Available on YouTube and podcast platforms, the show takes an unconventional and delightfully playful approach to interviews. Set up as a kind of “clinic,” Joe positions himself — tongue firmly in cheek — as an unqualified therapist, ready to examine the minds, stories, and quirks of his guests. the “Clinic”: Joe is joined by his faithful assistant, Jake, as they host sessions featuring awkward small talk and probing questions.With Janet coordinating who we never see.
But make no mistake: behind the humour lies genuine insight. Joe has an uncanny ability to make people feel relaxed, safe, and willing to open up. He doesn’t interrogate; he converses. He listens. He reacts. And in doing so, he creates moments of real connection that traditional interview formats often fail to capture.
One of the most celebrated episodes to date features Stephen Fry, a guest whose presence alone elevates any conversation. In this standout instalment, viewers are treated to a rare blend of wit, wisdom, and vulnerability. Hillarous moment when he pretends to be Joe and message the Traitors whatsapp group as him asking if he should open and “Only fans page “
Johnathan Ross replys sure and do forget to include a free microscope for members. Others were more encouraging
The episode sees Fry reflecting on creativity, mental health, fame, and identity, while Joe responds not as a distant host but as an engaged, curious human being. Their chemistry is effortless — at times deeply moving, at others laugh-out-loud funny. It is a masterclass in how thoughtful conversation can still thrive in the digital age.
For many fans, the Stephen Fry episode confirmed that Will See You Now is more than just a celebrity chat show. It is a space for meaningful dialogue — where humour and heart sit side by side.
Other episodes have featured comedians, athletes, entertainers, and public figures, each bringing their own stories and struggles to the table. Whether discussing career highs, personal setbacks, or unexpected life lessons, Joe guides every conversation with empathy and authenticity.
What makes the show truly compelling is Joe himself. He never hides behind a polished persona. He is honest about his own doubts, his mistakes, and his journey. That openness invites guests — and viewers — to be open too.
In an age where many celebrity interviews feel rehearsed and formulaic, Will See You Now feels refreshingly real. It’s unpredictable, warm, occasionally chaotic, and always engaging. You never quite know where the conversation will go — and that’s exactly the point.
Joe Marler’s evolution from rugby star to beloved broadcaster has been organic and heartfelt. He hasn’t chased fame; he’s simply followed curiosity and stayed true to himself. And audiences have followed willingly.
With standout episodes like the one featuring Stephen Fry, and a growing list of fascinating guests, Joe Marler Will See You Now is quickly establishing itself as a must-watch series. It’s the talk show everyone wants to be on — and increasingly, one everyone wants to watch.
In a world hungry for authenticity, Joe Marler is delivering it, one conversation at a time. Lets have it a main stream show as it is funny orginal and what we need right now .
When we talk about male grooming, most men immediately think of haircuts, beard trims, maybe the occasional wet shave if they’re feeling indulgent. Walk down any British high street and you’ll see it for yourself: slick barbershops offering everything from skin fades to hot towel shaves, nose waxing, ear hair removal and precision beard sculpting. Male grooming is no longer niche — it’s big business.
Men struggle with brows .
What’s perhaps less talked about is how many men are now quietly crossing the threshold into what were once considered female-only beauty spaces. Over the last decade, men have made up around a third of beauty salon clientele — and in some areas, even more. The reasons vary. For some, it’s confidence. For others, it’s professionalism. And for many, it’s simply about holding the hands of time back just a little.
Grooming isn’t about vanity. It’s about maintenance. If your home starts to look tired, you redecorate. If the roof needs fixing, you repair it. No one judges that. Caring for your face, hair and skin should be viewed in exactly the same way.
The Silent Ageing Culprit: Eyebrows
One of the most overlooked areas when it comes to male ageing is the eyebrows. Men often obsess over hair loss on the head while completely ignoring what’s happening just above the eyes.
Here’s the truth: eyebrows age us. They thin, lose definition, grow unruly, curl unpredictably, and sometimes disappear in patches altogether. Even the thickest brows aren’t immune. Over time they can begin to resemble overgrown caterpillars — or worse, stray hairy bugs with a mind of their own.
Waxing, threading and tinting can help, of course, but they require constant upkeep and the results can be inconsistent. For many men, especially as we get older, it becomes a losing battle.
I should know.
Turning sixty-five, my own eyebrows had become a point of quiet frustration. One brow was noticeably thinner and weaker than the other. The “good” one, meanwhile, had developed those wiry, curling hairs that refuse to lie flat no matter how much trimming you do. I found myself plucking constantly between salon visits — and yes, occasionally filling them in with a brow pen. Let’s be honest: if you’re doing that in secret, something isn’t working.
Asking for Advice (and Taking the Leap)
So I did what I always advise others to do — I asked a professional. My dear friend and beauty PR powerhouse Abby Knight listened patiently and then made a suggestion that, I’ll admit, made me pause.
She recommended a visit to Everlasting Salon, to see eyebrow specialist and known in the business as “ The beauty enhancer” Sylwia Kucharska.
SylwiaKucharska beauty expert
Now, gentlemen, if the idea of walking into a salon like this makes you nervous, let me put you at ease immediately. From the moment I arrived, I felt welcome, respected and completely safe. The team are highly trained, discreet and genuinely sensitive to men who may feel a little out of their comfort zone. There’s no judgement — just professionalism.
Sylwia herself was an absolute joy. Warm, reassuring, and empathetic by the bucket load, she listened carefully as I explained my eyebrow woes. Within minutes, she made me feel less like a client and more like an old friend.
Her recommendation? Microblading.
Microblading: Not What You Think
At the mention of microblading, I’ll be honest — alarm bells rang. Images flashed through my mind of overly dark, overly sharp brows I’d seen on some men, better suited to drag performance than everyday life. No offence intended — just not my look.
Sylwia laughed. “Not at all,” she said. “This is completely different.”
She explained that microblading is a semi-permanent eyebrow treatment designed to create the illusion of fuller, natural brows using ultra-fine, hair-like strokes. The pigment is deposited just beneath the surface of the skin with a handheld tool made up of tiny needles, mimicking real hair growth rather than solid blocks of colour.
Masculine. Subtle. Natural.
Beautiful Everlasting Salon .
My first appointment was simply a consultation and patch test to ensure I wasn’t allergic to the pigment — something I strongly advise everyone to do. No pressure, no hard sell.
The Treatment Experience
A few weeks later, I returned — this time genuinely excited. What struck me most was that Sylwia seemed just as invested in the result as I was. She asked if I was nervous, but with such calm, caring hands, it was impossible to be.
Taking the leap in the very capable hands of SylwiaKucharska
Before the treatment begins, the brows are carefully mapped and shaped to suit the face. I’ll admit, this moment nearly gave me cold feet. The outline looked strong — too strong, I worried. But I was reassured that this was just a guide, not the finished look.
A numbing cream was applied to minimise discomfort, and the full process — including consultation and shaping — took around two hours. The sensation? Mild at worst. At no point was I uncomfortable, and the care taken throughout was exceptional.
Natural looking brows at Everlasting Salon
When I first looked in the mirror, I liked them immediately — though I did worry the colour appeared a little warm. Sylwia calmly explained that this is normal and would soften as the skin healed. She was right. Over the following days, the tone settled beautifully into my natural colouring.
The Results — and the Reality
Despite having written about almost every treatment under the sun, I still had a wobble later that day. Was it too much? Had I overdone it?
But as the days passed, the brows softened, healed and blended seamlessly. The result? Brows that look youthful, thicker, and — most importantly — entirely believable.
Sylwia provided clear aftercare advice. Avoiding the gym for a week was a shock (I won’t lie), but everything else was common sense and easy to follow.
I’ll return in four weeks for a check and possible top-up, but already I’m thrilled. My eyebrows no longer betray my age. They frame my face properly again, without shouting for attention.
Final Thoughts
If you’re a man who’s noticed thinning, uneven or ageing brows and quietly wondered if there’s a solution — there is. And it doesn’t have to look obvious, artificial or un-masculine.
Looking after yourself isn’t vanity. It’s self-respect.
And sometimes, the smallest changes make the biggest difference.
If you’re looking for art that truly stands out—something with edge, intellect and a distinct Italian flavour—then Italian-born artist Ernesto Romano is a name worth seeking out.
Romano lives and works in London, where his practice reaches far beyond the surface of the body and into its very core. Based at the remarkable FirePit Gallery, just moments from The O2, he creates work that is as visually seductive as it is intellectually provocative. This is the kind of art that stops people in their tracks—the portrait no one else has, and the talking point everyone wants.
At the heart of Romano’s work is an extraordinary and deeply personal source material: his own medical records. X-rays, MRIs and internal scans of his body are transformed into striking, often playful artworks that quietly ask some of life’s biggest questions. “I am progressively dissecting myself,” he says with a smile. By stripping the body of its external markers—fashion, status, wealth and adornment—Romano reveals a powerful truth: beneath it all, we are equal. Bones, organs and neural structures carry no hierarchy. Jewels mean nothing here.
And yet, paradoxically, jewels and decoration frequently appear in his work. Glitter, gold leaf and even diamond dust sit alongside stark medical imagery, creating a fascinating tension between what lies beneath the skin and the sparkle we use to present ourselves to the world. Bold colour is central to his practice, an influence he traces back to Pop Art, and for Romano, colour is inseparable from life itself. It is a celebration of being alive, of being human. You can easily imagine his work echoing the iconic glamour of Andy Warhol’s portraits of Marilyn, and being sought after by collectors and celebrities alike.
Research plays a vital role in his creative process. Romano spends countless hours studying historical anatomical drawings, medical imagery and scientific material. He is also deeply inspired by documentaries about the Universe. Reflecting on humanity’s origins and our place within something so vast can feel overwhelming, he admits, but it is precisely that sense of scale that fuels his creativity. Big questions, after all, lead to bold ideas.
At the core of his practice is an ongoing, almost forensic exploration of his own body. Each project focuses on a different internal element, analysed, reimagined and transformed. His most recent work centres on the brain: a three-dimensional print created from an MRI scan converted into a digital 3D file. Next, he hopes, will be the heart—both literally and conceptually.
Romano cites Damien Hirst as a key influence, particularly in terms of colour, though he is careful to stress that his admiration is selective. If he could own any artwork, Guido Reni’s Ecce Homo would be high on the list, while in the contemporary world he is drawn to the visceral, energetic paintings of Riccardo Cinalli, which he describes as full of carnality and pathos.
Originally trained as an architect, Romano brings a strong sense of proportion, balance and material awareness to his art. Architecture taught him the emotional power of simplicity, the relationship between order and chaos, and the importance of restraint. “Less is more,” he says, echoing Mies van der Rohe—a philosophy that underpins even his most glittering works.
Away from the studio, his passions are quieter but no less revealing. If he weren’t an artist, he would be a botanist. He grows flowers from seed and finds the process meditative—a gentle counterpoint to the intensity of his conceptual work. Electronic music provides the soundtrack to his studio hours, while Stephen Hawking’s The Universe in a Nutshellremains his favourite book, a fitting choice for an artist fascinated by existence, origin and meaning.
Looking ahead, Romano dreams of showing his work in unconventional settings. A techno club such as Berghain, housed in a former power station, feels like a natural fit—raw, industrial and immersive. He imagines his pieces on a monumental scale, backlit like giant lightboxes, vibrating with sound and energy. He has already made an international impact, having spent three months working in Shanghai, and his ambitions continue to expand globally.
Ask him where he sees himself in ten years and the answer is simple and quietly confident: at home, making exciting new work for another exhibition somewhere in the world, tea in hand, surrounded by plants. Always moving forward. Always creating.
Heidi Gammon, Agony Aunt, Answers Your Valentine’s Questions
Love, desire, doubt, and the courage to speak honestly — Valentine’s Day has a way of stirring emotions we sometimes keep carefully tucked away. Whether you’re navigating friendship, long-term relationships, new love, or loneliness, these questions remind us that matters of the heart are rarely straightforward.
You can hear Heidi Gammon, alongside Steven Smith and Aston Avery, discussing these real-life dilemmas on Gateway Radio on February 10th at 10am, with the full show available to catch up on YouTube shortly after.
Dear Heidi,
I hope you are well.
My best friend of twelve years is gay. We’ve known each other since high school, and his sexuality has never been an issue for me or my family — we love him unconditionally. Over the years he’s had various partners, but nothing serious.
Two months ago, after we’d been drinking, he kissed me and told me he loved me. I honestly don’t know why I let it happen. It stopped there, and we’ve never spoken about it since.
Looking back, I think I may have been in denial. He’s always had a crush on me, and I’m now worried that this might be stopping him from meeting someone who can truly return his feelings. There is no chance of it being reciprocal, but I feel I need to talk to him — for both our sakes. What should I say?
All my love,
Adam, Brentwood
Dear Adam,
Thank you for trusting me with something so sensitive.
What stands out most here is how much care and respect you have for your friend — and that matters. Love doesn’t always fit neatly into boxes, and sometimes unspoken feelings linger quietly until they surface in unexpected ways.
You didn’t do anything wrong by freezing in the moment. Alcohol lowers boundaries, but it doesn’t create feelings that weren’t already there. What does matter is what you do next.
Avoiding the conversation protects neither of you. The kindest thing you can do is speak honestly and gently. Choose a calm moment and tell him that you value him deeply, but that your feelings are firmly platonic. Reassure him that your friendship matters and that you don’t want him holding onto hope that prevents him from finding someone who can fully return his love.
It may feel awkward — but clarity is an act of love too. You’re the best Heidi
Dear Heidi,
My boyfriend of four years really looks forward to Valentine’s Day. Each year he buys me gifts from Ann Summers and similar places. While he always takes me out to dinner, the evening usually ends with him wanting to dress up, role-play, and act out fantasies.
I think our relationship is loving and generally good. I do go along with some dressing up at times, but I feel like I’m not giving him what he really wants — and if I’m honest, the focus on “dress-up time” at Valentine’s is actually off-putting for me.
What can I do? Stella Southend
Dear Stella
Long-term relationships often stumble when desire becomes an expectation rather than a shared experience.
Your boyfriend’s enthusiasm isn’t wrong — but your discomfort isn’t either. Valentine’s Day has somehow become loaded with pressure, particularly around sex and fantasy, when it should be about connection.
This isn’t about you failing him. It’s about mismatched expectations. The answer lies in conversation, not performance. Try saying something like: “I love being close to you, but when dressing up becomes the focus, I feel pressured rather than desired.”
Intimacy thrives when both partners feel safe and excited — not obliged. If you can’t meet in the middle, it’s worth asking whether this dynamic works for you long term.
Hi Heidi,
I love your column.
My mum is 55 and looks great. My dad left when I was 12, and she hasn’t really met anyone since. I’m 19 now and leaving home in September, and I’d love for her to meet someone.
She insists she’s fine and tells me to leave it, but I worry about her being lonely. There’s a man who works for the council who’s been to the flat a few times to do jobs. She always smiles at him and makes him a cup of tea. He’s divorced and around her age.
Should I try to set them up? I sometimes see him at my gym.
Thanks, Darren, Basildon
Dear Darren,
Your concern for your mum is genuinely touching — but tread carefully.
Loneliness looks different at every age, and contentment doesn’t always announce itself loudly. Your mum may truly be at peace with her life as it is, even if it doesn’t look like what you imagine happiness should be.
That said, a gentle nudge is fine — a shove is not. Instead of playing matchmaker, open a conversation. Ask her how she feels about dating now, not what she’s missed in the past.
And one important rule: never involve a third party without consent. If she does express interest in meeting someone, you can mention the council worker — lightly — and then step back.
Let her lead. Love, at any age, deserves dignity.
Dear Heidi,
I’m in my sixties, gay, and single. I don’t like bars or dating apps, and the idea of going on a date makes me feel physically sick.
What can I do?
Mike, Romford
Dear Mike,
You are far from alone — and nothing is “wrong” with you.
Dating culture can feel exhausting, performative, and frankly brutal, especially if bars and apps don’t suit your personality. The good news? They’re not the only doors into connection.
Consider spaces built around shared interests rather than romance: walking groups, book clubs, volunteering, community classes, or LGBTQ+ social groups that aren’t centred on nightlife.
Connection grows more naturally when the focus isn’t dating but being. And remember — companionship doesn’t always begin with fireworks. Sometimes it begins with comfort.
Love Heidi
Dear Heidi,
I’m taking my new girlfriend out for our first Valentine’s Day together. I try to be a good boyfriend — I open doors, pick her up, and help out whenever she needs something done at her place.
But I’m honestly terrible at the romantic side. Flowers, yes — but beyond that, I’m stuck. What can I do to make Valentine’s Day feel truly special?
Eric, Brighton
Dear Eric,
You may not realise it, but you’re already doing many things right.
Romance isn’t about grand gestures or perfect scripts. It’s about thoughtfulness. The most memorable Valentine’s moments are rarely expensive — they’re personal.
Think about her. What makes her feel seen? A handwritten note. A playlist. A meal you cook yourself. A walk somewhere meaningful. Even saying, “I’m nervous because I really care” can be incredibly romantic.
Romance isn’t performance — it’s intention.
Heidi
Hello Heidi,
My husband and I have been married for twelve years. Recently, he suggested spicing things up by having a threesome. He says he doesn’t mind whether it’s with a man or a woman.
If I’m honest, the idea does appeal to me — but I’m scared it could either strengthen our marriage or completely ruin it.
Are there ground rules I should put in place? Or is this a bad idea altogether? I’ve told him I need time to think about it.
Anonymous
Dear Anonymous,
I’m glad you didn’t rush into an answer.
A threesome is not just a sexual experience — it’s an emotional one, and once a third person enters the picture, there’s no “undo” button.
Before discussing rules, ask deeper questions. Why does your husband want this? What does it represent for him — novelty, validation, curiosity? And equally important: what does it represent for you?
If you decide to explore it, boundaries are essential: who, when, emotional limits, aftercare, and the right to stop at any time — even at the last minute.
But if your gut says “this might damage us,” listen to it. Desire should never come at the cost of safety or trust.
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…
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.
2Shades Magazine 