worked

MOLLY-MAE Hague fans think they’ve worked out the gender of her unborn baby after spotting a ‘clue’ in the background of her latest YouTube vlog. 

The 26-year-old and boyfriend Tommy Fury are getting ready to welcome their second child next month.  

Former Love Island star Molly recently revealed she’d decided not to share the gender with fans – despite filming a reveal video with daughter Bambi, three.  

But in her most recent vlog, some eagle-eyed fans noticed a book called ‘Peppa’s new baby sister’ – leaving them convinced she’s having another girl.  

One wrote: “Ooh I never noticed this!!”

Someone else said: “The BOOK.”

MAEBE NOT

Mysterious reason Molly-Mae Hague has not revealed gender of her new baby

deja vu

Pregnant Molly-Mae reveals huge parenting fear ahead of birth of second child

And a third added: “Peppa’s little SISTER.”

Opening up recently about deciding not to share the gender, Molly confessed she’d been enjoying seeing her fans guess what she is having. 

She said: “A baby is coming in a few weeks, so I really need to sort out my hospital bag… 

“I thought I would just show you a couple of bits that I’ve started packing for me.

“Because everything for baby is quite gender obvious and we’ve kind of kept it to ourselves up till I’m basically giving birth so we might as well keep it until the end now.”

Molly continued: “It happened so accidentally. We’ve actually got a full-blown gender reveal video. We did a balloon with Bambi.

“I was planning to post it but we just never did. And then I don’t know, seeing everyone guess has just kind of been funny.”

Harriet Cowan, who stepped in for Kaleb Cooper on Clarkson’s Farm, has opened up about what Jeremy Clarkson is really like off camera after spending 11 weeks living and working at Diddly Squat Farm

Harriet Cowan has disclosed what Jeremy Clarkson was truly like. Harriet, 25, emerged as one of the standout personalities of series four of Clarkson’s Farm when she deputised for Kaleb Cooper.

She spent 11 weeks residing in a caravan at Diddly Squat Farm in Oxfordshire assisting the former Top Gear host in managing the land. The ex-full-time nurse charmed viewers with her remarkable farming expertise and sharp-witted comebacks to the TV presenter.

Now Harriet, who left nursing behind to concentrate on farming and content creation, has revealed what Jeremy was like away from the cameras. On the Fed By Farmers podcast, she explained: “It was a different dynamic, he was like a father figure when I was there. He was lovely.”

She continued to disclose that people were eager to express their views on Jeremy after discovering she was on the programme. Harriet commented: “He’s like Marmite isn’t he?

“Off the back of the show people would always be like, ‘Oh I hate that guy,’ or ‘I love that guy,’ and I think he just doesn’t care, which is great.”

Harriet has previously stated she knew who Jeremy was before participating in Clarkson’s Farm, but hadn’t watched any of his earlier work. She admits she “wasn’t really into the cars thing” as a youngster.

However, after being approached by Charlie Ireland, Jeremy’s land agent, she was “intrigued” by the opportunity of featuring on the Amazon Prime Video series. She characterises Jeremy as “very much like every other farmer I’ve ever met”.

Speaking to The Times, she revealed that the former Grand Tour presenter was “very much willing to learn”. Jeremy, 66, found his career taking an unexpected turn towards farming in 2019 when the tenant at his farm retired.

He had originally purchased the 1,000-acre plot in 2008, with the-then Curdle Hill Farm being managed by a local resident. After opting to run the farm himself, Jeremy renamed it Diddly Squat Farm and chronicled his experiences on television.

Harriet reveals that it soon became apparent that Jeremy “wanted to do well by the farm”. She also quips that the television personality has the “physique of a farmer”.

While Harriet stopped short of confirming whether she would be returning to Clarkson’s Farm, she did admit to harbouring ambitions of purchasing her own farm in the future alongside partner James Booth.

She went on to say: “I just want somewhere that’s mine that I can just say, you know, I want to grow store cattle and sell them for fat or whatever.

“I want it to be all mine, that I’ve done all that, and look at them and say, ‘I’ve done that’. So that’s the plan, a few very exciting new TV things coming off and YouTube I’m c**p at.”

Holidaying as a single parent is a tricky balance. You want to ringfence the kind of extended one-on-one time that can be difficult to find during term time; but too much of that and you know you’ll drive each other a little crazy. Kids need other kids, and you could do with some adult company too. You also need a break. It’s a nice idea to pack the car with camping gear and head out into the wilderness, but it can be a lot of work – and you end up in a field, attempting to put up a tent, alone.

Friends of mine have suggested holiday parks, some of them with bars and restaurants and a daily schedule of kids’ activities. That all sounds a bit overstimulating. I’d been dreaming about sinking into a quiet landscape. But would there be enough to do?

The potential answer came in the shape of One Cat Farm, a small nature reserve tucked in a remote valley in Ceredigion, west Wales, which may have the balance just right. Owners Jessie and Lyndon bought the old pig farm when they moved from London in 2013. Setting up a glamping site, running and raising it with three young children, a barely functioning bathroom and no internet was “not quite as fun” as they’d intended, they tell me, but they persevered, and after years of hard work it is – I soon discover – an incredibly special place.

The four cabins, which sleep two adults and up to three children, were designed and built by the couple and are spaced discreetly through the site. There’s a growing woodland (Jessie and Lyndon have planted more than 300 trees since moving here), a wild-swimming pond, and another where nature is left to do its thing. To the east are the Cambrian Mountains; to the west, the hidden beaches of Cardigan Bay – not that we see much of this when we first arrive, in the dark, having driven straight from school pickup. We’re met by Jessie, who shows us to our cabin, which (with double glazing and heating) is wonderfully warm. My six-year-old daughter can’t contain her excitement; she loves the cushions, the lights, the luxury bedding, and the enormous window through which we glimpse the last of the sunset. On discovering the bar of chocolate left as a welcome gift, she calls the place “paradise”.

I’m impressed by how much thought has gone into One Cat Farm. It is simple in the best kind of way, each detail carefully considered without ever feeling overbearing. On our first morning, we find pond-dipping equipment by the communal shed and head down to the water. We’ve dipped nets before without much success, but here the discoveries come thick and fast. There are newts and caddisfly larval cases, damselfly nymphs and water boatmen. Red kites wheel overhead. I strip down to my swimming costume and slip into the water; it is bitingly cold, and glorious. My daughter whoops. She’s standing by the reeds with a towel ready; I realise, with some surprise, that I’m feeling cared for, too.

Over the next few days we explore the nearby beaches, where there are resident dolphins and seals, along with miles of sand. We eat street food from the Manuka food van on the harbour wall in Aberaeron, and fresh pizza and gelato at Tafell a Tân in Llangrannog; we comb high-tide lines and peer into caves, discover mussels on rocky outcrops and stare up at sheer cliff faces. Walking the hedgerows, we forage pennywort and garlic mustard, and wild garlic in droves (Lyndon tells us to come back in autumn for the mushrooms, his favourite time of year).

It’s easy to be a visitor here, but Ceredigion faces challenges, with about 30% of children living in poverty. Jessie is keenly aware of this, and speaks passionately about the difference that places such as One Cat Farm are able to make to the local economy. “Our existence supports not just our family, but also two employees. And, because of our size, we don’t have onsite facilities like a cafe or pub, so guests go out and support local businesses.” She compares this model with those of bigger holiday sites, which are often run from afar by big businesses: “The difference between them and us is like comparing a big wealthy farm to a small subsistence farm.” Jessie and Lyndon clearly care deeply about what they do, and that the place is of benefit to the community and its wildlife.

It’s incredible to think how much must have changed here in the last decade or so, since the project began. By the pond, we spot an otter and a heron; there are rumours of polecats and a peregrine falcon. Crouching in the grass, a network of small tunnels becomes visible – evidence of voles and shrews, now permanent inhabitants.

I’m not always good at slowing down, but here it’s possible to do just that – even with a small person in tow. One night, she and I try the wood-fired outdoor baths; we soak (and splash) for hours, and watch the stars come out. It’s been ages since I’ve felt so relaxed, and so free to revel in my time with her.

While community is encouraged – there’s a communal kitchen and fire pit – it’s not enforced, and if you’ve come for quiet it is easy to be secluded. But before long my daughter has buddied up with the boys in the cabin down the slope, who are here with their dad. Soon they’re moving in a pack, playing on the rope swing, making clay models at our picnic table, drawing maps of the wood. As they head off again, I open a book, then stare at the hills, and yes, I think, it is a kind of paradise. This, I see now, is what we needed; not crowds, not endless choices and constant stimulation, but a bit of time to recoup, reconnect and get immersed in the world.

Accommodation was provided by One Cat Farm. Cabin rates start from £134 a night (sleeps two adults and up to three children), minimum two nights.

Until recently, President Trump always found a way to fail forward, through a combination of spin, threats, payoffs and bluster.

OK, that’s the simplistic interpretation. The fine print tells a less-glamorous story: a man born on third base who spent decades insisting he’d hit a triple.

Still, it’s hard to argue with success. When Trump entered politics, he redefined the rules of the game. Rivals who tried to outflank him on policy detail, ideological consistency and institutional norms found themselves either vanquished or assimilated by the Borg.

By my lights, only once during Trump’s admittedly chaotic first term did he run into something that his playbook couldn’t at least mitigate or parry: the COVID-19 pandemic. For the final year of his presidency, reality refused to negotiate, and political gravity reasserted itself. It turns out, viruses aren’t susceptible to the Art of The Deal.

But then, miraculously, Trump wriggled through legal jeopardy, bulldozed his way past more conventional Republicans and Democrats, and re-emerged victorious in 2024.

If anything, that comeback reinforced the idea that Trump could survive anything by virtue of his playbook.

By the start of his second term, he’d made impressive headway in co-opting not only individuals but also major institutions within big tech, the media and academia.

Even in foreign affairs, Trump’s sense that any problem could be solved via force, intimidation or money was confirmed when he captured Venezuelan President Nicolás Maduro and installed Maduro’s vice president, Delcy Rodríguez, as a sort of puppet leader. Everyone has a price, right?

Unfortunately for Trump, no. Not everyone does.

Lately, the president has encountered a different kind of resistance — adversaries motivated by something bigger and more transcendent than money, power or the avoidance of pain.

In dealing with Iran, for instance, Trump has confronted people operating under a wholly different set of incentives. It’s a regime guided by a mix of ideology, radical religious doctrine and long-term strategic interests that don’t always align with short-term material gain.

(Now perhaps, having punished Trump enough already, Iran will finally come to the negotiating table. But even if that happens, it will have occurred after exacting a steep price — so steep, in fact, that it may already be too late for Trump to plausibly claim a win.)

It turns out, you can’t easily intimidate or pay off a true believer who isn’t afraid to die and believes they have God on their side.

A similar (though obviously not morally equivalent) dynamic is now also on display in the form of Trump’s skirmish with Pope Leo XIV, a man who commands moral authority. He opposes the war in Iran (“Blessed are the peacemakers”) and has demonstrated a stubborn refusal to back down to Trump’s attempts at bullying.

“Woe to those who manipulate religion and the very name of God for their own military, economic and political gain, dragging that which is sacred into darkness and filth,” Leo said during a tour of Africa. It’s a remark that the American pope seemed to implicitly be aiming at the American president.

Here’s what Trump doesn’t understand: There are still pockets of the world where concepts like faith and national identity outweigh tangible incentives. Where sacrifice and suffering are an accepted part of the plan.

When facing these sorts of foes, Trump’s usual operating system starts to look less like a cheat code and more like a category error.

But he can’t see this because Trump is always prone to a sort of cynical projection — of assuming everyone views the world in the same base, carnal, corrupt way he sees it.

Whether it was his incredulity that Denmark wouldn’t sell Greenland, rhetoric that seemed to discount the motivations of those who serve and sacrifice in the military, or his affinity for nakedly transactional gulf states, the pattern is familiar: a tendency to view decisions through a cost-benefit lens that not everyone shares.

To be fair, that lens has often served him well. In arenas where power, money and leverage dominate, Trump’s approach is eerily effective.

But after years of taming secular, “rational” opponents, he is fighting a two-front war against people who see their struggles as moral and spiritual.

They aren’t stronger in a conventional sense. But they are, in a very real sense, less susceptible to Trump’s methods.

For perhaps the first time in his life, Donald Trump finds himself facing adversaries who aren’t just immune to his usual Trumpian playbook but are playing a different game altogether.

Matt K. Lewis is the author of “Filthy Rich Politicians” and “Too Dumb to Fail.”