The Frighteningly Real Housewives of Beverly Hills

A lot of reality TV is staged. I know it, you know it and, most importantly of all, the people taking part know it.

   

Much of real life reality can be very tedious or, if not tedious, a lot simpler than that featured on TV. Most of us manage to meet with friends without resorting to physical violence, and most of us leave restaurants and bars without breaking anything. We cook, clean, put out the garbage, brush our teeth, take showers – for the most part, we settle into a comfortable routine with our loved ones.

   

Imagine how boring that would be to watch. So, what reality TV does is extract big (for “big”, read famous, loud, obnoxious – anything out of the ordinary) personalities from the monotony of the everyday and place them in highly charged situations where their differences and conflicts play out for the amusement of the viewer. It’s the bear-pit mentality to which the TV viewing audience has become addicted.

   

At what point, though, does it cease to be entertainment and become deeply disturbing viewing? For me, that point was this week on The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, when Kim Richards appeared to transform into a baying werewolf howling at the moon, when Lisa Rinna apologised very nicely, realising she had inadvertently upset Kim by going into her “business”. “You did,” responded Kim (“Awooooohhhhh! Awooooohhhhh!”).

   

Kim’s problems with alcohol have been well documented in each series, and now claiming that she has been sober for three years, she is very sensitive to any reference to her behaviour, past or present.

   

After some very nasty verbal abuse thrown at Lisa R (as opposed to Lisa V, Lisa Vanderpump) in previous episodes – a car journey, a plane ride to Amsterdam – Kim was having none of the apology, despite Lisa explaining that her own sensitivity was down to her having lost her 21 year old sister to alcohol and drugs when she was just six. Attacking Lisa R once more, Kim’s eyes widened demonically, so much so that I feared they were going to swallow the rest of her head whole. 

She then proceeded to lose it completely, attacking both Eileen Davidson and Lisa R (both newcomers to the show this season), and insinuating unpleasantries about Lisa R’s husband, the actor Harry Hamlin. Lisa R, usually the model of decorum, also then lost it, threw wine at Kim, smashed the glass and stormed out. I really didn’t blame her. I respected her for later making up with Kim, but I, for one, would not have been so generous.

   

Even if she is not drinking, Kim displays all the signs of an out of control addict. I have no doubt that she has struggled with her problems and continues to do so on a daily basis, but there is a real nastiness at the core of her being that I suspect she used alcohol to try to disguise. Without the Dr Jekyll front that the bottle gave her, the Mr Hyde actually has nowhere to hide, and the display in the shop window is not a nice one.

   

There is real anger here – anger that she can’t drink, probably – and immense jealousy. Kyle Richards, her breathtakingly beautiful sister, is at the brunt of most of it, and the cruelty that Kim displays towards her is unforgivable. It is to Kyle’s credit that she continues to forgive her sister and to try to understand her, but it can’t last, or Kyle will have a breakdown.

   

So, why would Kim be jealous of her sister? Well, Kyle has a gorgeous husband in Mauricio, four gorgeous kids, a beautiful home, and she recently opened a successful fashion store. She, too, has had her moments of losing it and, like all the other women, has her insecurities and vulnerabilities; but unlike Kim – and Brandi Glanville (I’ll come to her in a minute)  - she and the others do not parade their role as victims of life for the cameras.

   

It is no surprise that Brandi and Kim have become bosom buddies; neither has anything that the other women have in terms of looks, relationships, or professional success (Brandi did, until a blind surgeon – in my opinion - did her face over). They are the playground bullies, trying to exercise power only by bringing down the people around them, and it’s sad to see.

   

I enjoyed Brandi when she joined the show, but her extreme behaviour has turned her into a colourless bore and not, as she likes to imagine when she has had too much to drink (way too often), the life and soul of the party.

   

Both remind me of Stassi Schroeder, one of the key figures of another Bravo show, Vanderpump Rules, set in and around Lisa V’s restaurants. Another bitter, jealous, spiteful piece of work, she too has alienated everyone around her and caused so much trouble amongst Lisa’s staff (the stars of the show), while refusing to admit her own culpability.

   

And therein lies the problem with Kim, Brandi and Stassi  - all the bad things that have happened to them in life are, as they see it, somebody else’s fault, and that’s what they can’t forgive. I’ll bet that Lisa V, for all her appearing to have it all, has had many sleepless nights during financially challenging times and being stabbed in the back by people she thought were friends. But does she attribute blame? Does she heck.

   

They don’t call jealousy the green-eyed monster for nothing, but while Kim, Brandi and Stassi feed their insatiable desire for nasty trouble making, they should take some time out and try to realise one basic principle in life: it is you alone who are responsible for your own happiness. 

And if you can’t accept that, then be advised to stay clear of low-flying glass.

       

   

Wales: Land of my Fathers - and my Friends

This has been a very Welsh week for me, despite the fact that I am living in New York City. 

First, a reception on Friday lunchtime for Wales’s First Minister, Carwyn Jones, at the British Consulate; the next day, major celebrations at the Red Lion, where, along with the Minister, we watched Wales beat France in the Six Nations on the giant TV screen; and, finally, yesterday, St David’s Day at Mr Biggs Bar and Grill in Hell’s Kitchen.

   

Mr Biggs is a local hostelry where a group of Welshies meet every Sunday when our friend, Phillip Arran, briefly escapes from the Norwegian cruise liner on which he is performing in two musicals. Yesterday was particularly lively, with an eclectic mix of other nationalities celebrating our patron saint, St David, under our national flag that the bar agreed to hang on the wall (thank you, Richie and Scott).

   

I always get very sentimental when I am around my countrymen and women. Even though my Welsh friends and family live in different parts of the world, when we get together there is a bonding of the heart that just isn’t explainable. The longing for one’s homeland is “hiraeth” in Welsh, and some other nations have their own word for it; but, as far as I know, there isn’t a word for that stirring of the heart that occurs when we are among our own.

   

I have always been very proud of my heritage. Cultured, erudite, artistic, fun-loving – I never have less than a great time among the Welsh. But more than anything, I love the Welsh sense of humour. At our Sunday brunch, we enjoy two hours of non-stop laughter – something that other diners stare at with something approaching mystification.

   

What is it that lies at the heart of Welsh humour? To me, it is multi-faceted. There is a quickness of wit, an ability to engage in self-deprecation (so much so, we have turned self-deprecation into an art form), an openness of spirit, a genuine enjoyment of the physical act of laughing . . . It’s hard to analyse (as humour tends to be).

   

But I think, ironically, what makes the Welsh so funny is their seriousness – the kind of seriousness that often lies at the core of very funny people. The lack of confidence that comes from having been an invaded nation, even, at one stage in our history, being denied our language, instils a desire, a need (a real necessity, in fact) to rise above conflict – and laughter really is the best medicine.

   

More than in any other country, I also think that humour in Wales is classless. I have met very funny people from all walks of life in my homeland: some educated, others considerably less so, but that has never stopped disparate groups of people enjoying themselves. That is probably in part due to the fact that we have more things that unite us than divide us – not least, singing and rugby – and a sense of pride that, at its roots, was bred amongst working class communities of the valleys.

   

I know some very funny people – Americans, English, Irish, Scottish, French (yes, really; sharing a rugby day with the French is the best) – and humour is obviously central to most people’s lives. It’s what gets us through the mire; it’s what uplifts us when we are low and carries us through and beyond pain, both emotional and physical. Humour is what wipes our slates clean: it consigns yesterday to a box and carries us to the unknown and the expectation of better times tomorrow.

   

But while I love the humour of so many people in my life, the world over, there is nothing that quite beats the all-consuming hilarity of a group of Welsh people: the laughter that is born of the same history, the same insecurities, the same passionate love of one’s roots.

   

And so, thank you to all my Welsh friends who shared this fabulous week – and special thanks to my Cardiff friend, Catrin Brace, Wales’s fantastic ambassador in North America, who includes me in the magnificent Welsh events that take place throughout New York on a regular basis. 

   

I’m a European. I feel part American. I feel like an international citizen. 

But, in my heart, body and soul, I will never forget that I’m Welsh. I remain very proud of that. 

And this week was a salutary reminder of who I really am.   

It's a Dog's Life - Literally

What a strange week. A blizzard, a massage that almost involved the police, and saving a dog’s life.

   

The blizzard that hit North America and promised three feet of snow in Manhattan turned out to be little more than a flurry. I was out walking the streets in it and it was really rather beautiful. That didn’t stop New Yorkers adhering, to the letter, to the Mayor’s State of Emergency declaration. Supermarket shelves were emptied, the transport system shut down, and bars and restaurants closed early.

   

My social networking communication went into meltdown with worried family and friends from the UK checking to see if my head was still above snow level. No amount of reassurance on my part – that New York is a very big place, that Connecticut is not in the next street, and that I’ve seen worse weather in Wales (on an almost weekly basis, come to that) - gave them confidence that I would survive the blizzard of all blizzards.

   

I happened to be out in it as I had just had lunch courtesy of my good friend and brilliant lyricist Sir Tim Rice, who was in town on business. We went to a local Italian and, despite his efforts for his taxi to get me home, I decided to hoof it in order for him to get to his next meeting on time.

   

There is something incredibly invigorating and exhilarating about walking in falling snow. Put it down to childhood memories of Christmas, or the memory of unexpected days off school, or just the sheer wonder when one’s world turns white, it’s just a weather condition I have always loved.

  

The massage was supposed to be just as enjoyable, but very nearly wasn’t. I have been suffering from lower back pain for over a year now, not helped, I am sure, by lugging enormous bags around various countries of the world. This week, though, the pain was so bad I decided to go for some deep tissue massage at a venue advertising itself as a spa specialising in certain kinds of Chinese body work, rather than one of the places with dirty net curtains and a luminous red sign saying MASSAGE in the window.

  

My masseur looked like a Sumo wrestler, but I had very deep knots and, if anyone was going to unravel them, it was going to be this guy. So, I lay down in the little cubicle, relaxed and prepared my body for attack.

   

From my area, I could hear another voice from beyond the curtain – a man’s voice wanting a massage. In the cubicle next to mine, I heard him ask first if they had a shower, then if they had a hot towel. Then he asked for a hot towel again, shortly before the words “Don’t touch me!” came from the screaming masseuse.

   

I’m not sure what happened next, but my masseur apologised and left, there was some discussion with the touchy feely man, and what was clearly an altercation with the threat of the police being called. “Sorry about that,” said Sumo, returning, followed by the masseuse, who then insisted on showing me exactly what had happened, grabbing my hand from where I was lying on the couch, and pressing it to her leg and rubbing it up and down. Yeah, yeah, I get the picture. Now get back to my knots.

   

Now, to my new role as the New York Dog Whisperer. One of the reasons my knots had been worse was because I had agreed to be a dog walker for 10 days when my good friend and neighbour was away, and one of her regular dog walkers was no longer available. I took the lunchtime shift, but on walk number three noticed that Keela was limping. She had great difficulty walking and kept falling over, until she finally gave up and sat on the sidewalk, her back right leg doubled up under her body. I had to carry her home – and, at 16 kilos, that was never going to bode well for my knots.

   

I have grown up with dogs and told the holiday carers they should call the vet. “She wasn’t limping this morning,” was their response, making me feel like the dog abuser of the scenario.

   

I know a dog in pain when I see one and, after contacting the owner (who, quite rightly, worships this adorable dog), the carers were instructed to take Keela to the vet the next day if the situation hadn’t improved overnight. It didn’t, and she was whisked into doggie emergency.

   

It transpired the poor little thing had a herniated disc, which required urgent surgery by a neurologist. They didn’t think she would survive it (I learned that she was paralysed when she was taken in) but, thankfully, she did. I have been to see her in the hospital twice and she greets me as the mighty saviour I undoubtedly am.

   

It’s heartbreaking to see animals in pain, and I feel quite wrecked, having gone from abuser to saint in the space of just a few hours.

   

I’m hoping for a less eventful week today, although there is the promise of more snow. In Manhattan, it ain’t gonna happen, trust me. 

It’s not only dogs I understand.

I’m the New York Weather Whisperer, too.       

    

The Trial of Mr Biggs - Witness for the Defence (Me) Speaks Up

I’ve never been what you’d call a big committee person. 

Don’t get me wrong. I like committees; I just don’t like anyone other than me being on them. It’s why I wouldn’t like to be on a jury. I know I’d enjoy the law side of it, but unless I was the foreman (do people say forewoman? You see? I’m arguing already), I’d have to plead sickness, else go for a quick “They must be guilty if they’re in court in the first place” approach that would get us all out of there damned sharpish.

   

But last night, I found myself part of a very big committee indeed – well, a “community board”, to be precise, CB4, which represents the Hell’s Kitchen area in which I live. I’d been asked to attend by one of my favourite local bars, Mr Biggs, as the owners want to open another place close by. They asked those of us who are fans to support them and, if possible, speak.

   

I never need any encouragement to speak, especially when it’s in public. In fact, so much do I enjoy speaking, I am sure I will be punished in my next life by being sent back as a deaf mute.

   

The meeting took place in a conference room at Mount Sinai hospital and I immediately signed up for opening my gob on the subject of opening a bar. The only subject on which I could ever be even more vociferous would be that of never closing a bar.

   

There was a lot to get through before the rent-a-gobs got to take their place at the microphone. I learned a lot about free astronomy courses at the Intrepid museum (oh, please stop me from rushing out to buy a telescope before I’ve even tried a class), and even more about stairwells in new apartment blocks. They now have to be wide enough for eight people and, I discovered, the World Trade Centre had stairwells that were wide enough for just two.

   

Several people who appeared to have signed up to Stairwellgate declared that they had put their names on the wrong form (why would anyone want to talk about steps when there are bars to be opened?). Then, a woman who had signed up properly for something else decided that she had rather a lot of say on the subject of stairs – so much, to be honest, that had there been a nearby flight, I would happily have pushed her down them. 

   

Another woman was very unhappy that a building was going to be pulled down; another that a building was going to be put up. Geez . . . it was going to be Last Orders at Mr Biggs at this rate. Move it, people!

   

We were called in groups of five to the microphone and, as always happens in these circumstances, I had to stretch my neck to giraffe like proportions to reach it. I said my bit – fulsome praise of the bar, the owners, the management, but nerves encouraged some really weird things to come out of my mouth. Come on, it was the first time I’ve ever spoken in the US, and while it might not be Congress, it’s a start (give me time).

   

At one point, I found myself saying “Of all the worlds I’ve lived in . . . “ before realising that I have, as far as I know, lived in just one. The correction provoked a laugh, and I talked about the importance of a woman (and one of a certain age) feeling safe in a bar environment. 

   

Loads of other people spoke up in favour of Mr Biggs. Heck, it was so encouraging, I thought they would be granted permission to build a hundred new bars, let alone convert just one. 

   

Then the women with cardigans got up. I know from the UK that where there’s a woollen cardigan, there’s going to be trouble. Suddenly, there was an army of cardigans. Would there be cabaret? What about the noise? How would local residents sleep? Could they enforce a 2am rather than 4am closing time (even the latter is waaaaaay too early for this European)? I tell you, I reckon we were a hair’s breadth away from talking about how wide the stairwells would be.

   

I left the meeting before the vote and went to Mr Biggs where, it turned out, I later learned that the application had been turned down. I hope it wasn’t because the committee didn’t think they wanted aliens from other worlds inhabiting their planet.

   

It was incredibly disappointing for the owners, who really are a great bunch of guys who, given the success of their other places, I, and their other supporters, know would do a terrific job.

   

I’ve no doubt they’ll take it to the next level, at which time they will have to put their case to the State. Just point me in the direction of that microphone. 

Failing that, just tell me who I have to sleep with.

Life is for the Living, Not the Dying

I grew up watching my grandmother go up and down flights of stairs all day long when she and Grandpa ran The Old Globe pub in Rogerstone, just outside Newport in South Wales.

   

Her stamina always amazed me. She carried crates, served behind the bar, and, the thing I remember most, rose at 5am every morning to make fresh Cornish pasties for pub lunches.

   

On the one occasion I stayed with her, when Grandpa was ill in hospital, we shared the same bed and I recall three things: the false teeth she put in the glass at her bedside before retiring (I was fascinated – I thought only dentists removed teeth); her kneeling on the floor at the side of the bed to say her prayers; and the early morning that was ‘pastie o’clock’. She had barely been in bed five minutes after cleaning up after last orders.

   

She had always been the same. At 14, she gave up her job as a photographer’s assistant to wash clothes for the huge family of nine. To me, knowing this when I was young, it was a slavish existence. She must have worked eighteen hours a day until she retired when Grandpa died in 1971. Fifty years. That’s well over 350,000 hours. At least.

   

I lay there one night, on a sleepover when Grandpa was in hospital, listening to the mixer (good old Kenwood) stir the potatoes and onions and, when I finally got out of bed, I marvelled at the rows of golden, ribbed Cornish pasties on their steel trays that Grandma carried down to the bar to put in the ‘snacks’ container that kept them warm on the counter. And at 64, when she retired, she was still bounding up and down those stairs like a youngster.

   

When we, as a family, visited every weekend (Mum helped out behind the bar), I collected tops from the Courage beer bottles – numerous bright colours (orange, blue, yellow) surrounding a cockerel in the middle – and was ecstatic when Grandma gave me an empty cigar box in which to put my collection of plastic jewellery. I still have the Babycham glass she gave me with Bambi prancing across the front.

   

On Bank Holidays, Dad would take us to the temporary fair in the field opposite the pub. Dad always won a coconut and, one afternoon, won two goldfish – one for my brother Nigel and one for me. Nigel’s fish, Fred, died, when Mum fed him eight oxygen tablets when he appeared to be struggling to breathe. In the end, I suspect it was the wind that killed him.

   

My fish, Horace, had an inauspicious start in life when the bag we carried him back in burst, and he spent a good few minutes drunk as we tried to scoop him up from the spilt Guinness on the pub floor. At least he lasted longer than Fred, so it must be true what they say about the benefits of stout.  

   

I remember every Saturday afternoon, when Nigel and I were deposited downstairs, emerging from the terror of the living room where we had to watch Dr Who in the dark (apparently, it saved electricity), to be offered our choice of chocolate from the sweet counter in the bar.

   

I have thought of Grandma so many times since her death in 1989, a short while after her eldest daughter, Audrey, and a short while before my beloved father in 1990. I recall never hear her once complain, though her life was non-stop work, morning till night, seven days a week. She brought up three daughters, including my mum, Val, the eldest, and the youngest, Barbara, through a war, looked after Grandpa when he was dying of cancer, and dealt with horrendous money problems not of her making, following his death.

   

When I started out in my late twenties in Fleet Street, writing five TV columns a week “live” (this was in the days before videos and DVDs), living on five hours’ sleep a night for four years, I always had at the forefront of my mind that to survive in life, you had to have a strong work ethic, and nowhere had I witnessed it more powerfully than in my grandmother. 

   

To this day, that work ethic, and her fortitude and spirit are central to what keeps me going when times get tough for me (and I work just as hard now as I did when I started out). She had it tougher; she really did. But she loved her work, loved her family, and, despite the hardship, loved life.

At her funeral, the minister said: ‘Some people live dying; others die living.’ Grandma was the latter. And, thanks to her, I will do that, too. 

Hopefully, not for a while yet.  

It's Not Easy Being Green

New year, new fad. 

The papers and magazines are full of them and, as someone who has a Toad of Toad Hall approach to life (“Crazes. He always has crazes”), it was inevitable that I embarked on a couple more this year.

   

In LA, I embarked on them on a weekly, if not daily basis; on every street corner, there is someone offering you a better life, usually at a cost of thousands of dollars. In New York, it seems easier to set one’s own routine for considerably less. Maybe it’s because of the competition.

   

So, I began with cleansing my digestive system. I drink a reasonable amount of carrot juice anyway (I love it, but am careful not to overdose on Vitamin A – not good), and thought that Daily Greens sounded more aggressive. So it was spinach, kale, celery and lemon juice, accompanied by a banana and, my weakness, two cups of Tetley tea (my supermarket has run out of PG Tips; I am heartbroken and very shaky from withdrawal symptoms as a result).

   

It’s hard to say what Daily Greens tastes like, but lets just say that the barium meal I had 30 years ago when I was tested for an ulcer was better. I certainly heaved a lot less on it. Individually, I like all four components – spinach (in Delia’s spinach, rice and cheese bake), kale (stir fried), celery on its own or in my vegetarian Bolognese sauce) and lemon (gin and tonic). Together, however, it tasted like a frog that had overdosed on . . . well, other frogs. Other frogs with bad very stomach upsets. It looked like Kermit after a severe road traffic accident.

   

I tried coconut water instead. This is the juice from young green coconuts (maybe the frog had overdosed on those, too?) that apparently aids digestion, helps weight loss, and lays claim to being the very elixir of life, alongside water. It tasted like cat’s pee, albeit sweet cat’s pee. I decided to stick to my carrot juice and what comes for free out of my tap.

   

My diet, however, is going well. Fresh fruit and veg, very little or no alcohol, and two fingers of Kit Kat if I fancy something sweet (which I rarely do, anyway; I am lucky in never having had a sweet tooth). But then I’ve always been quite a healthy eater. I used to spend all my pocket money on health magazines, which is why I now know everything about bowel movements but couldn’t name you a number one hit single from the past 50 years.

   

But now to exercise. Again, I’ve always been quite good on this front. I used to be a dancer, I walk everywhere, and I have frequented many gyms, where I do a good cardio workout and a bit of muscle training on machines. Last year, I also had a personal trainer twice a week, and this year I have added boxing cardio to my routine – something I did years ago before hurting my knee when trying to compete in “boxercise” classes with young lads who actually boxed for a living. Very foolish.

   

This year, I thought I’d try something different - yet another yoga class. My friends who do yoga look amazing and seem to have knocked years off their ages. Personally, I’ve never got on with it. No matter what class I attend, I always seem to be behind the person who, in Downward Facing Dog, has a veritable wind farm operating from his or her backside.

   

Yesterday, I decided to try yet another form of yoga. Although it has been around for some time, “hot yoga” is increasingly popular owing to the likes of Andy Murray and Gwyneth Paltrow doing it. As I don’t want to win Wimbledon, or be “consciously uncoupled”, the celebrity aspect of it wasn’t what appealed; instead, it was the fact that the exercise takes place in a room heated to over 105 degrees, which is supposedly better for muscles and makes you sweat more.

   

As with all yoga classes I have previously attended, I quickly dislocated my neck trying to see what the teacher was doing. Then I twisted my groin by being too competitive and trying to stretch further than people half my age. Then came the dreaded Downward Facing Dog. Over and over again. There was an “Up” dog, too, and something I have never experienced before – “Happy Baby”. This one I struggled with, so much so that the teacher had to come over to show me how to do it, and I still couldn’t master it. Come on. How was I supposed to know what a happy baby pose was? The last time I was in one, I was a baby for goodness’ sake!

   

For those not in the know, Happy Baby involves you lying on your back and cupping your right foot in your right hand; then your left; then both feet together. Small wonder I couldn’t get it. Happy baby pose to me was always, I am sure, stuffing my face and sleeping it off.

   

I have to say, though, that the lower back pain that has been plaguing me for months had completely gone this morning. I was able to leap out of bed without pain and there is not a hint of the soreness that has been making life so difficult. Maybe it was the Daily Greens, maybe the coconut milk, but I suspect it was the hot yoga.

   

Did I enjoy it? No. Do I want to go again? No. Will I go again? Yes. It’s worth it for the back relief alone. And in a New York City winter, I know I’m going to need all the 100 plus degrees I can get. 

Even if I do have to suffer a rectal wind farm to get it.