I escaped it for three and a half years and thought I was very good. Dozens of tests and never a single sign of positivity, which still fits well with my less than optimistic and grumpy temperament.
Published at 12:57 am. Updated at 7:15 a.m.
Then, on Halloween night, the big thrill. Not what was caused by the RDS 5 à 7 presenters’ costumes. The one that makes you both sweat like a pig and chatter your teeth like a skeleton. Late in medical fashion, good evening, I have been infected with COVID-19, the vintage 2020 version that destroys the sense of smell, makes you dizzy, constipated, bedridden, and twists your skull.
Like a garbage truck had run over me, backed up, beep, beep, beep, only to crush me again like a pancake in a counter at Au Petit Coin Breton in 1994.
The virus has the advantage of allowing the infected person to watch all of their favorite candy reality shows.
I finally watched the episode of “The Kardashians” (on Disney+) where Kim and Kanye’s daughter North bites into a raw Spanish onion and I come away scared, grown up and proud, like a teenage billionaire with a personal chef does it with a simple onion as a snack.
I devoured the new – and seventh – season of Selling Sunset (Sun to save, on Netflix) in one sitting, in which the designer outfits of Amazon real estate agents Fendi and Balenciaga gain more visibility than a Kazakh man’s 37 million house Oligarchs the heart of Beverly Hills. Less big huts, more Paco Rabanne.
To summarize, Romain still speaks English like a Spanish cow, Amanza walks around with a Chanel bowling ball, and the Oppenheim Agency’s new office is a little less tacky than the old one next door.
When we are sick, we also find solace in true crime series. Our little sufferings suddenly seem less serious than those of a middle-class family from Lynchburg, Virginia, two members of which were beheaded in 1985 in an alleged satanic or voodoo rite. If the worst happens to others, it doesn’t matter. will never fall on us, will it?
That’s the name of the crime miniseries “Till Murder Do Us Part” currently running on Netflix and tells the story of the murder of the influential couple Derek and Nancy Haysom in April 1985. At dinner, someone cut their throats and stabbed them several times.
According to legal journalists at the time, the blood stains on the kitchen linoleum formed patterns that were associated with a satanic sect.
After a few weeks of wandering, the local police identified two suspects in these murders of unspeakable horror: the murdered couple’s daughter, Elizabeth Haysom, 20 years old, and her lover Jens Söering, 18 years old, son of a German diplomat.
Neither arouses our sympathy. Elizabeth speaks with a strange British accent and plays the repressed rich kid. Jens thinks he is a misunderstood poet and comes across as condescending. And the two accuse each other of the gruesome murders. But who really committed it?
This four-episode miniseries is packed with archival footage from the trial and, be warned, includes a shocking amount of blood-soaked photos from the crime scene. You watch it all at once, and the final episode, a classic, doesn’t provide all the answers to this dark matter that interested Larry King as much as Geraldo Rivera at the time.
PHOTO CHARLES WILLIAM PELLETIER, SPECIAL COLLABORATION
Louis-José Houde hosted the 45th ADISQ Gala last Sunday, his 18th.
Another evening of television on Sunday with Louis-José Houde, who completed 18 years as host of the ADISQ gala on Radio-Canada. What an achievement, nonetheless. Since 2006, the comedian has been a strict, dedicated, concise, funny, efficient, agile and elegant master of ceremonies.
Who knows how low the torpor and platitude of the Quebec music festival would have sunk without him? Probably at the disastrous level of Jutra, sorry, at the level of the Québec Cinéma-Gala, which will be miraculously revived on the airwaves of Noovo on Sunday December 10th.
However, Louis-José Houde’s final lap was not his best. We sensed the host taking a slight step back, less Energizer Rabbit, more in analysis mode. He wasn’t bad, quite the opposite. But he teased less and slowed the pace of his gags. And Louis-José Houde looked in the rearview mirror with a certain nostalgia, resulting in a ceremony that was certainly amusing, but also quieter and more moving.
Note to decorators: The purple waves behind Louis-José Houde gave the impression that the calendar had been moved to November 1986. Note to viewers in the Wilfrid Pelletier Hall: Throw away your damn erasers before the gala begins. It seems to me that we have been babbling about this advice for 20 years and no one is applying it.
Note to ADISQ producers: Good luck replacing Louis-José Houde next year. Because interest in galas is decreasing and good entertainers are not on the street.