NotAChatelaine
VIP Member
Four days in and the CD Vlogvent Calendar is dire. All that fuss for what? Admittedly, the segment at the Provençal nativity figure making place was interesting, and could easily have been left at that without the tedious unwrapping of purchases back at Grifting HQ. How many nativity scenes will there be, I wonder? Not that I'm interested!
Another 20 days of mindless drivel, squeals of delight, snorts galore and content regurgitated from last year and the year before. The first year was quite entertaining because it was new and different, plus it benefitted enormously from the dynamic between SJ and Teabag - as unlikeable as he is, he does at least have an ounce of two of personality. Last year was desperate, trying to replicate what had gone before.
Philip is a Class 1, premier league prissy twerp. His omnipresence is like nails on a blackboard. As for his Y/T channel, words fail. The Unrenaissance Boy knows diddly squat about setting tables but thinks he's the arbiter of taste and savour faire because he's read up on it (but gets it wrong) and has acquired some cruddy china, cutlery and glass. All the stuff he's brought into the uninhabitable farmhouse probably makes him think he has squatter's rights. Having his feet firmly under the table - or toasty warm in the chatelaine's bed - doesn't make for security of tenure. I hope he has the phone number of a removal firm, come the moment the Great Romance bites the dust.
Another 20 days of mindless drivel, squeals of delight, snorts galore and content regurgitated from last year and the year before. The first year was quite entertaining because it was new and different, plus it benefitted enormously from the dynamic between SJ and Teabag - as unlikeable as he is, he does at least have an ounce of two of personality. Last year was desperate, trying to replicate what had gone before.
Philip is a Class 1, premier league prissy twerp. His omnipresence is like nails on a blackboard. As for his Y/T channel, words fail. The Unrenaissance Boy knows diddly squat about setting tables but thinks he's the arbiter of taste and savour faire because he's read up on it (but gets it wrong) and has acquired some cruddy china, cutlery and glass. All the stuff he's brought into the uninhabitable farmhouse probably makes him think he has squatter's rights. Having his feet firmly under the table - or toasty warm in the chatelaine's bed - doesn't make for security of tenure. I hope he has the phone number of a removal firm, come the moment the Great Romance bites the dust.