I come to you, subscribers, with hat in hand, I couldn’t write the newsletter this week. PLEASE stop crying about it, it’s embarrassing for the both of us (wow, what an amazing impression of my ex-boyfriend!)
Instead of a newsletter written from scratch, think of this week’s SWEETIE Weekly as a rerun. A refreshers of sorts. This is a collection of different memories, feelings, thoughts, beliefs and past rages from old newsletters. Try thinking of it like a bottle episode, or something. Idk.
Anyway. The reasons I couldn’t write it are boring. But I’m not!!! So read on.
🌜 SWEETIE RATES 🌛
Imagine 1.0
A 2010 promo video for the Norwegian TV show Glyne Tider has recently resurfaced. With no word of a lie, it is one of the best pieces of media that has ever been created.
Featuring perhaps the most random assortment of celebrities ever assembled, about 20 D-listers lip sync for their lives to a cover of Let It Be on a beach that can only be found in a melatonin-induced dream. This video goes for almost six minutes, a full two minutes longer than the actual original song version by The Beatles. It’s perfect.
With any luck, it’ll be preserved by the Library of Congress.
I first watched this off my phone during a particularly boring Zoom seminar. Engrossed, I made it over a minute into the video before I realised that I was actually not muted. Right then, I found myself in times of trouble. I left the call. I did not return.
As always, after each viewing of this fever dream, I am left with more questions than answers.
Was Roger Moore doing that box dye all by himself? Do Norwegians really know about Ricki Lake? Is Tonya Harding actually a marketing drawcard? Is George Wendt winning the IDGAF war? Does this video have the worst ever attempts at air guitar? Have these people ever SEEN a guitar before? Will I ever stop being emotional when I see footage of Leslie Nielsen? Why doesn’t Glenn Close have an Oscar?
We’ll just never know. But something tells me a few more rounds of viewing will help me crack the case.
Rita Ora’s wedding coverage
Who? Weekly patron saint and famed Kate Bush cover-er Rita Ora married Taika Waititi last year, and now Vogue is making it our problem.
Though it does not seem to be standard with Vogue’s wedding profiles, from what I can tell, Rita has written captions for each of the wedding pictures in the slide show. You’d assume a normal celebrity's writing would be boring, bland, PR-sanitised fluff. Not Rita’s. You can absolutely tell she wrote these, with no edits.
I am mesmerised by her writing style, a mix between millennial meme-speak and meaningless idioms. I mean this with all the love and respect in the world — these captions are deeply brainless. Take a scroll with me.
For my dress, I was looking for something that was going to feel unique and a bit unexpected, which is why I went for the one shoulder and the lace. I saw this Tom Ford dress years ago and found it just before the wedding in my exact size. It can’t get much more meant to be than that.
It can’t get much more meant to be than that. Say that fast five times, I dare ya.
I think the cake says it all.
Well… yeah!
It’s giving Hollywood glamour.
Sort of, but also no. Your nipple is showing, mi amor.
Ta-daaaa!
Okay, this one slaps. She definitely cobbled this one together after three poolside mimosas. Perfect amount of a’s.
I truly felt like I was in my very own love story.
You were! It’s YOUR wedding day.
That feeling when you just got married.
Perfect. No notes.
I don’t mean to be mean, I really don’t. Rita Ora quite genuinely seems like she might be the most fun person on the planet. I wish we could play Pictionary together.
My donut rule
One Krispy Kreme: That’s the dream
Two Krispy Kreme: Prepare 2 scream
Krispy Kreme and a half: You’re having a laugh
I posted this on my Instagram Close Friends in a rare moment of clarity, obviously while I was eating Krispy Kreme. To me, it was genius.
I tend to eat for pleasure, which is all divine and lovely until you forget that your taste buds connect to your stomach. Every single time I eat Krispy Kreme I eat two or three or four like a naughty little Hans Christian Andersen character and end up with STABBING stomach cramps.
Not now, though. Not with the donut rule. You may use it for other donuts you come across but it kind of doesn’t really work like that because of the cadence of the rhyme. Try it out though. If you want. No pressure.
💥 SWEETIE HATES 💥
People standing in the street
What is it about eating brunch that makes people decide to idle in groups of four to six, smack bang in the middle of the path? It’s as though the consumption of overpriced eggs and coffee somehow renders people completely effete in the midst of the world around them. MOVE.
I already lament the organisation of the streets in L*ndon — there is no set preference as to whether you walk on the left or right hand side of the path, so it’s constant chaos. Throw in a bunch of nepotism freelance Art Directors with hand rolled ciggies and a shaking Italian Greyhound standing directly in the middle of the path and I’m ragin’.
Get those Acne scarves and fresh-put-the-box Salomons the fuck outta my way. I have squirrels to go look at and I do NOT want to be inconvenienced while I’m on my merry way. The worst part is when you have to take a little step onto the literal road to get around them. Humiliating. Demoralising. Death, to all of them.
When a straight man calls himself “sex positive”
Yeah buddy, I bet ya are! Shocking development. Tell me another one.
That little straw taste test thing that bartenders do
I get it, we had to swap from perfectly functional plastic to vile paper straws because we were killing the turtles. But you know who is actually to blame for all that straw waste? Bartenders. Bartenders killed the turtles.
WHY do they have to do the little dip-and-taste manoeuvre with a straw when they’re making a drink? And then they make a big show of throwing the now-wasted straw straight into the bin! It’s absurd. You need to do a little taste test to make sure the millionth Old Fashioned you made tonight tastes right? Get the hell outta here.
I was out the other week and the bartender leaned across the bar and handed me a full cocktail shaker, asking me to shake it up for him. I was floored. That’s like me asking him if he wants to sit hunched over in a bed that’s covered in clean laundry and cobble together a ham-fisted newsletter each week. They can’t keep getting away with this buffoonery.
Thanks for bearing with… Hope ur not mad at me like everyone else is all the time… (God, another stellar ex impression!)