|  | Donald Sutherland with Julie Christie |
| The unlikely sex symbol who starred in one of cinema's steamiest scenes | With his long face, droopy eyes, protruding ears and wolfish smile, the 6ft 4in Donald Sutherland was "never anyone's idea of a movie heartthrob", says The New York Times. The star of M*A*S*H and later the Hunger Games movies, who died this week aged 88, recalled that during his childhood in Canada, he once asked his mother if he was good-looking. "No," she told him, "but your face has a lot of character." She was right. He was once rejected for a film role by a producer who said: "This part calls for a guy-next-door type. You don't look like you've lived next door to anyone." | Sutherland certainly enjoyed the irony of having appeared in one of cinema's steamiest scenes, says The Times. While filming the 1973 thriller Don't Look Now, director Nicolas Roeg instructed Sutherland and his co-star Julie Christie to walk into the bedroom naked. "We laid on the bed and the director said, 'All right Julie pull your knees up to your shoulder. Donald take your mouth and slide it down the inside of her left thigh.' It went on like this for 12 hours. Neither of us could speak afterwards." The resulting scene was one of the first to depict sex realistically in a mainstream film, although Sutherland – unlike Christie – always denied rumours that the sex had been real. | His big break came in the 1967 film, The Dirty Dozen. Lee Marvin, Charles Bronson and others in the cast were arguing over who should impersonate a German general when Robert Aldrich, the director, a man who made decisions "faster than you can imagine", looked down the table and said: "You with the big ears. You do it." Suddenly, Sutherland had a major role in what turned out to be one of the biggest hits of the year. |
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| | | | THE HALL This impressive Grade II*-listed home sits within four acres of private grounds in the picturesque hamlet of Slade Hooton, South Yorkshire. The 17th-century house includes eight bedrooms, two fantastic reception rooms, a generous kitchen and a swimming pool. Outside, extensive gardens feature orchards, a pond and a greenhouse, while the Peak District National Park lies just under an hour's drive away. Doncaster is a 30-minute drive, with trains to London in an hour and 45 minutes. £1.65m |
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| | |  | The Mall during the platty jubs. Daniel Leal/Getty |
| The genny lec is giving me a menty b | If you've spent any time online recently, you'd be forgiven for thinking "there's something in the water", says Coco Khan in The Guardian. Grown adults have regressed to using "very silly abbreviations" for pretty much everything. The cost of living crisis is the cozzie livs; the general election is the genny lec, and a mental breakdown is a menty b. Holidays are holibobs, working holidays are holijobs, and the wine formerly known as sauvignon blanc is savvy b – best paired with a jacky p (jacket potato) for a dinner that's not too spenny (expensive). There was a time when I found this all a bit cringeworthy. But now our nation's quirky pursuit of daft nicknames makes me feel "patriotic". In a country of punmakers, this collective wordplay has become a national sport, with new phrases gleefully dreamt up faster than you can say panny d (pandemic). | Behind the obvious silliness and camaraderie, there's something else at play. What's more British than being profoundly unserious about something serious, or dressing our troubles up as a joke? In a country where talking about money is mostly taboo, it's easier to moan about the cozzie livs than admit you're struggling to make ends meet. It'll also be easier for some – particularly younger people – to type "I'd better go home before I go full menty b" than admit that they're struggling. It would obviously be better if we could speak honestly about our feelings, but surely this sarcastic, silly version is better than nothing? These funny little phrases should be a source of national pride. "Or should I say nashy p?" | | | | | | Enjoying The Knowledge? Click below to share | | |
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| | |  | The face of a true "red-blooded male". Jack Taylor/Getty |
| The colourful love life of Nigel Farage | It turns out Nigel Farage is a "rip-roaring romantic success", says Zoe Strimpel in The Spectator. According to chums, he pursues "anything in a skirt" and, according to former conquests, enjoys unlikely sexual prowess. His first wife was a nurse he chatted up in hospital while recovering from a car crash; his second was "a stunning German bond broker" he seduced in a Frankfurt trading room. Meanwhile, he's had a string of girlfriends and mistresses. He is now with Frenchwoman Laure Ferrari, who he wooed in Strasbourg while she was a waitress. He's not my type, but I must admit Farage is a reminder of a jollier time of rollicking, chance-taking and cheekiness. He brings to mind "the kind of bonking that wouldn't be followed by a chilly ghosting, but rather more invitations to drink and bonk and make merry". | What his long list of trysts proves is that there's still an appetite for that sort of "red-blooded" male in today's "po-faced culture of scrupulous consent-seeking and feminist allyship". I was always rather fond of the committed drinks-buyer who may "hope for something physical" but who is also perfectly happy just "paying homage". It wasn't creepy or sad but fun and spice-of-lifey: "that winning audacity thickened with masculine charm". In a potentially embarrassing kiss-and-tell, one of Farage's lovers described a night not of "advantage-taking", but of "excellent sexual endurance" – claiming he had managed seven love-making sessions in a single encounter. It seems that rather than entirely kill them off, #MeToo has created a new appreciation of the "old-school good-time-man", who has become extra attractive for being so rare. "And thankfully like other unethical luxury goods, it hasn't yet been entirely banned." | | | | | "Jealousy is all the fun you think they had."
American author Erica Jong |
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