WORST. HITLER. EVER: Ellen DeGeneres Leaving UK to Return to U.S. After Fleeing From Trump.
Former talk show host and comedienne Ellen DeGeneres and her “wife” Portia de Rossi have had enough of the United Kingdom and reportedly plan to head back to the good old U.S. of A., just months after fleeing the country to get away from President Donald Trump. However, they claim they’re returning to California to avoid the super-chilly temperatures of the Cotswold region of Britain. In other words, America’s climate beats the dreary atmosphere of the UK, and the celebrity couple miss it so badly they’re willing to put up with a few months of President Trump.
Everybody has a price, right? Apparently, feeling physically uncomfortable is all it takes to make Ellen come crawling back. These folks refuse to commit to their own causes. They show no principles they’re willing to suffer for. Their actions say that rich and famous celebrities often perform for the public on social or political issues they claim to care about so they can look good, but when the rubber meets the road, they fold like a first-time poker player against Kenny Rogers.
DeGeneres has stated she plans to live in the UK until Trump leaves office; however, reports say she’s been telling her friends she wants to come back to Los Angeles for the winter. “She’s been telling friends they are coming home soon because they miss them and can’t take the winters over there, and Portia wants to act again. They will be here for the holidays and longer by the sound of it,” sources told the Daily Mail.
What is causing DeGeneres to dump the Cotswalds? Her attempt to flee the eeeeevil Trump Reich risks becoming a massive quagmire:
Well, according to a “source” who blabbed to the Mail on Sunday, Ellen will soon be heading back to California, and it’s not because the ongoing omnishambles of the entire UK political scene is beginning to make team Trump appear sane. No, Ellen simply, allegedly, cannot face another Cotswolds winter.
I know, bless, poor little Hollywood millionaires, are their tootsies getting cold in their Fendi wellies? Are their self-care saunas not working? Or has their heating bill just arrived? It’s risible, obviously. And yet, speaking from experience it would seem that, to paraphrase the bible, let he who has actually experienced a so-called Cotswolds winter cast the first stone. And I have, and so I won’t.
A Cotswolds winter is essentially the same as an average British winter, but for one key difference. Mud. Mud everywhere. Mud on everything. Mud in the car, mud in the house, mud on the floor, mud on the dogs, mud on the walls (yes, all over the walls!), mud on your clothes, mud on the furniture, mud, mud, mud! Sometimes, in the morning, you step out of the shower, put on some crisp clean clothes, skip down the stairs and take one final reassuring look at yourself in the hall mirror only to find that, somehow, inexplicably, you’re already covered in mud.
And it’s not a generic countryside thing. It’s a Cotswolds thing. The soil here is thin, Jurassic and lime-rich, meaning you add a single raindrop and it becomes lethal brown super glue. Even if you’re lucky enough to make it back indoors relatively unscathed, the tons of ambient mud around you (on the dog, on boots, bags and waterproofs) will soon harden, dry and puff insidiously outwards into a suffocating nano-cloud of silt that transforms your entire abode into post-Vesuvius Pompeii.
Exit quote: “And so my heart goes out to DeGeneres. I feel that she was sold a lie, or that she stared into the celebosphere and thought, ‘Cool. I’ll go to the Cotswolds! It’s full of fabulous people in big houses enjoying stylish soirees in fashionable outfits!’ And what did she get? Mud.”
I’m so old, I can remember when the Stalingrad winter was supposed to trap Hitler, not the communists.
