Olivia Rodrigo paid for band and crew to have therapy on Guts World Tour
The 22-year-old singer-songwriter's guitarist, Daisy Spencer, has told how the recent Glastonbury headliner ensured there was "accessible and free" therapy for "all of the touring personnel" on her Guts World Tour, and Daisy admitted such a gesture is "not very heard of" in the industry.
Speaking on The Stage Left podcast, Daisy said: "Olivia and our tour manager Marty Hom made therapy accessible and free for all of the touring personnel.
"I have never had anything like that.
"And that reignited the importance of therapy to me because I had just kind of fallen off for so long.
"And then suddenly I had this free resource of incredible therapists, and I utilised the crap out of that.
"I was going, you know, once a week, once every other week, whenever I could.
"And it was even during the off time, we also still had access to this resource.
"So honestly, that was one of the coolest things that has ever happened on tour.
"It's not very heard of. It was the coolest thing ever."
Daisy also praised Olivia as the "dreamiest boss of all time", and admitted the Good 4 U hitmaker has dealt with her rise to global fame "so gracefully and so effortlessly".
The guitarist added: "She literally is the dreamiest boss of all time.
"I feel like she just has handled the upward trajectory of her career in the most amazing way that most human beings wouldn't be able to do.
"She's done it so gracefully and so effortlessly."
Last month, Olivia expressed her "love" for England, and "English boys", in reference to her boyfriend Louis Partridge, as she closed this year's Glastonbury Festival.
Olivia - who was joined on the iconic Pyramid Stage by The Cure's Robert Smith - told the crowd: "I love England so f****** much.
"It's bands like The Cure that first got me acquainted with England ... I have so many things I love about England, I love pop culture, I love how nobody judges you for having a pint at noon, it's the best.
"I love English sweets, all the sweets from Marks and Spencer - Colin the Caterpillar, specifically.
"True story: I have had three sticky toffee puddings since coming to Glastonbury. And as luck would have it, I love English boys."
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Sky News AU
9 hours ago
- Sky News AU
Bella Kidman Cruise returns to social media with cryptic post weeks after Nicole's low-key visit to London
Bella Kidman Cruise has shared a rare social media update just weeks after her world-famous mother Nicole Kidman made a quick trip to London. UK-based Bella works as a visual artist in the English capital but is understood to be somewhat estranged from her adopted mother Nicole and father Tom Cruise. Meanwhile, Nicole regularly shares family snaps with Bella's half-sisters, Sunday Rose and Faith Margaret, from the Oscar winner's second marriage to Keith Urban. In recent months, Bella was noticeably absent from both a mother's day tribute by Nicole and a group photo of all the Kidman family women taken at the movie star's Nashville mansion. Bella also shares another half-sister, Suri Cruise, from Tom's third marriage to actress Katie Holmes. On Wednesday, Cruise posted a cryptic Instagram story showing images of two women's faces spliced together without a caption, marking her first social media update in months. In 2015, UK-based Bella married British I.T. consultant Max Parker but neither of her famous parents attended the nuptials. Nevertheless, Cruise reportedly helped pay for the event, while a Kidman source told People that Nicole was "very happy for Bella." Nicole was recently in London to appear at the Wimbledon Tennis Championships and attended the men's singles final with newly retired Vogue editor Anna Wintour. It is understood Bella, 32, lives in the English capital with her husband but it is unclear if she saw her movie star mother or country star stepfather during the brief visit. Meanwhile, Nicole's only son Connor, 30, lives in Clearwater, Florida, a small city closely associated with the Scientology community. The Aussie movie star has not been photographed with her two elder children in more than 15 years and typically declines to discuss them in interviews out of respect of their religious beliefs. Tom and Nicole married in a private Christmas Eve ceremony in 1990, less than a year after he finalised his divorce from actress Mimi Rogers. The pair were married for 11 years and adopted Bella in 1992 and Connor in 1995 before separating in 2001. Kidman, 58, and Cruise, 63, were reportedly given joint custody of Bella and her younger brother Connor in the divorce. However, the adopted children, who are devout Scientologists like Cruise, opted to live with their father.
The Advertiser
12 hours ago
- The Advertiser
The immeasurable wonders of life and little Hudson's big question
We were going through a phase with measuring tapes. Pulling out the taut metal band and recoiling as it snapped back into its heavy yellow box. Go slowly. See the numbers? We can use it to measure how big something is. Hudson was a bit over two at the time and our world was one of happy chatter. He sang songs to me and would parrot lines from his favourite books. We spent sunny winter days making tiny and significant discoveries at the beach, painting with our hands and learning the names of all the whales. It was on one of these idyllic days, stretching out a measuring tape across anything we could find in the backyard, that he turned his earnest face toward me and asked, "How big is the sky?" As with all good questions from children, it made me reconsider what I thought I knew. At the time, he described the world to us with imagery and nuance. He was also captivated by measuring tapes, the ocean and all the secrets that it holds. In a pre-maternity life, I taught secondary school English literature. That is where, perhaps somewhat surprisingly, I became enamoured with picture books. One may expect that I would have formed a bond earlier, say, in my own childhood. But I can't remember anything before early readers (my favourite of which was the zany and enigmatic Go Dog Go by P. D. Eastman). The books I was finding as a teacher were, however, unlike anything I had read before - they felt strangely opulent, magnanimous in their imagery and ideas. Imagine! A tiny gallery that you can hold in your hands! I would pour over the works of Shaun Tan and Armin Greder and ask teenagers questions about wonder and urbanisation, otherness and the politics of belonging. That was when the seed fell and pressed itself into the dormant soil of a full-time teacher: one day I would make my own tiny galleries rich with ideas and beauty. When the measuring tape couldn't stretch across the vast cerulean ceiling above us, I knew it was time. The idea was elegant enough - some things simply cannot be measured. My debut picture book, How Big is the Sky?, begins by introducing young readers to scientific and mathematical concepts such as distance, weight and volume along with the instruments used to measure them. Drawing us into the world of a child as he sets off on an oceanic adventure with his family, the quantitative science extends to the immaterial in an exploration to find "the most important things" - because, while many things in our world can be counted, other things aren't so easy to measure. Like the warmth of laughter or love that's as limitless as the sky. How do you measure the immeasurable things? It is impossible to talk about this book without talking about my son. Not only because it is his idea that is painted across the cover, but because he has radically reframed what the "important things" are for me. During the years it took to envision and bring this book into existence, my son lost his ability to speak. As I fussed over early manuscripts and submitted illustrated drafts through a global pandemic, beside me, the songs and chatter of my son grew eerily silent. Mysteriously, achingly, as Hudson grew older, his words became trapped inside him. The parental panic of watching our son withdraw from the world and then from us - fearful, restless, angry - was not only painful, it was disorienting. The direction I thought we were headed, the places I had hung my values, were no longer relevant to my life. It became shockingly apparent that what was important had very little to do with scores, rankings or external measures of success. And while I thought I already knew this, our new reality shed light onto the superficiality of my ideals and demanded a shift of paradigm. As Helen Keller reflected in a letter to Rev. Phillip Brookes in 1891, "The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen nor even touched, but [must be] felt with the heart". From someone else these words could seem quaint and rather trite, but as a Deafblind activist with her own torturous childhood of silence and frustration, Keller's words sit heavy with me. As an adult, the noisy demands of life often attach themselves to numbers and figures, deadlines and dot points. As an educator I watch young people adapt to the world of comparison and evaluation all too quickly, often confusing assessment with their sense of intrinsic value. We are bombarded, every day, with messaging that can make us feel like we need to measure up. I wrote this book because I wanted to point towards other metrics of worth. Things like generosity and courage, wonder and curiosity. Loyalty, determination, pride, love - these are all things that imbue our lives with meaning, and they are the things that we remember long after we've forgotten things like times, places, scores or rankings. This book, then, is not just about the measuring tape, it's about presenting the profound truth that the most wondrous, awe-inspiring things cannot be put on a scale or measured with a ruler or an altimeter. We already know that, but sometimes we all need a little reminding. While Hudson's words remain trapped inside of him right now, his ideas remain just as expansive. He shows us every day that things don't have to be quantified or even seen or heard to be real, hold weight and be of tremendous value. We were going through a phase with measuring tapes. Pulling out the taut metal band and recoiling as it snapped back into its heavy yellow box. Go slowly. See the numbers? We can use it to measure how big something is. Hudson was a bit over two at the time and our world was one of happy chatter. He sang songs to me and would parrot lines from his favourite books. We spent sunny winter days making tiny and significant discoveries at the beach, painting with our hands and learning the names of all the whales. It was on one of these idyllic days, stretching out a measuring tape across anything we could find in the backyard, that he turned his earnest face toward me and asked, "How big is the sky?" As with all good questions from children, it made me reconsider what I thought I knew. At the time, he described the world to us with imagery and nuance. He was also captivated by measuring tapes, the ocean and all the secrets that it holds. In a pre-maternity life, I taught secondary school English literature. That is where, perhaps somewhat surprisingly, I became enamoured with picture books. One may expect that I would have formed a bond earlier, say, in my own childhood. But I can't remember anything before early readers (my favourite of which was the zany and enigmatic Go Dog Go by P. D. Eastman). The books I was finding as a teacher were, however, unlike anything I had read before - they felt strangely opulent, magnanimous in their imagery and ideas. Imagine! A tiny gallery that you can hold in your hands! I would pour over the works of Shaun Tan and Armin Greder and ask teenagers questions about wonder and urbanisation, otherness and the politics of belonging. That was when the seed fell and pressed itself into the dormant soil of a full-time teacher: one day I would make my own tiny galleries rich with ideas and beauty. When the measuring tape couldn't stretch across the vast cerulean ceiling above us, I knew it was time. The idea was elegant enough - some things simply cannot be measured. My debut picture book, How Big is the Sky?, begins by introducing young readers to scientific and mathematical concepts such as distance, weight and volume along with the instruments used to measure them. Drawing us into the world of a child as he sets off on an oceanic adventure with his family, the quantitative science extends to the immaterial in an exploration to find "the most important things" - because, while many things in our world can be counted, other things aren't so easy to measure. Like the warmth of laughter or love that's as limitless as the sky. How do you measure the immeasurable things? It is impossible to talk about this book without talking about my son. Not only because it is his idea that is painted across the cover, but because he has radically reframed what the "important things" are for me. During the years it took to envision and bring this book into existence, my son lost his ability to speak. As I fussed over early manuscripts and submitted illustrated drafts through a global pandemic, beside me, the songs and chatter of my son grew eerily silent. Mysteriously, achingly, as Hudson grew older, his words became trapped inside him. The parental panic of watching our son withdraw from the world and then from us - fearful, restless, angry - was not only painful, it was disorienting. The direction I thought we were headed, the places I had hung my values, were no longer relevant to my life. It became shockingly apparent that what was important had very little to do with scores, rankings or external measures of success. And while I thought I already knew this, our new reality shed light onto the superficiality of my ideals and demanded a shift of paradigm. As Helen Keller reflected in a letter to Rev. Phillip Brookes in 1891, "The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen nor even touched, but [must be] felt with the heart". From someone else these words could seem quaint and rather trite, but as a Deafblind activist with her own torturous childhood of silence and frustration, Keller's words sit heavy with me. As an adult, the noisy demands of life often attach themselves to numbers and figures, deadlines and dot points. As an educator I watch young people adapt to the world of comparison and evaluation all too quickly, often confusing assessment with their sense of intrinsic value. We are bombarded, every day, with messaging that can make us feel like we need to measure up. I wrote this book because I wanted to point towards other metrics of worth. Things like generosity and courage, wonder and curiosity. Loyalty, determination, pride, love - these are all things that imbue our lives with meaning, and they are the things that we remember long after we've forgotten things like times, places, scores or rankings. This book, then, is not just about the measuring tape, it's about presenting the profound truth that the most wondrous, awe-inspiring things cannot be put on a scale or measured with a ruler or an altimeter. We already know that, but sometimes we all need a little reminding. While Hudson's words remain trapped inside of him right now, his ideas remain just as expansive. He shows us every day that things don't have to be quantified or even seen or heard to be real, hold weight and be of tremendous value. We were going through a phase with measuring tapes. Pulling out the taut metal band and recoiling as it snapped back into its heavy yellow box. Go slowly. See the numbers? We can use it to measure how big something is. Hudson was a bit over two at the time and our world was one of happy chatter. He sang songs to me and would parrot lines from his favourite books. We spent sunny winter days making tiny and significant discoveries at the beach, painting with our hands and learning the names of all the whales. It was on one of these idyllic days, stretching out a measuring tape across anything we could find in the backyard, that he turned his earnest face toward me and asked, "How big is the sky?" As with all good questions from children, it made me reconsider what I thought I knew. At the time, he described the world to us with imagery and nuance. He was also captivated by measuring tapes, the ocean and all the secrets that it holds. In a pre-maternity life, I taught secondary school English literature. That is where, perhaps somewhat surprisingly, I became enamoured with picture books. One may expect that I would have formed a bond earlier, say, in my own childhood. But I can't remember anything before early readers (my favourite of which was the zany and enigmatic Go Dog Go by P. D. Eastman). The books I was finding as a teacher were, however, unlike anything I had read before - they felt strangely opulent, magnanimous in their imagery and ideas. Imagine! A tiny gallery that you can hold in your hands! I would pour over the works of Shaun Tan and Armin Greder and ask teenagers questions about wonder and urbanisation, otherness and the politics of belonging. That was when the seed fell and pressed itself into the dormant soil of a full-time teacher: one day I would make my own tiny galleries rich with ideas and beauty. When the measuring tape couldn't stretch across the vast cerulean ceiling above us, I knew it was time. The idea was elegant enough - some things simply cannot be measured. My debut picture book, How Big is the Sky?, begins by introducing young readers to scientific and mathematical concepts such as distance, weight and volume along with the instruments used to measure them. Drawing us into the world of a child as he sets off on an oceanic adventure with his family, the quantitative science extends to the immaterial in an exploration to find "the most important things" - because, while many things in our world can be counted, other things aren't so easy to measure. Like the warmth of laughter or love that's as limitless as the sky. How do you measure the immeasurable things? It is impossible to talk about this book without talking about my son. Not only because it is his idea that is painted across the cover, but because he has radically reframed what the "important things" are for me. During the years it took to envision and bring this book into existence, my son lost his ability to speak. As I fussed over early manuscripts and submitted illustrated drafts through a global pandemic, beside me, the songs and chatter of my son grew eerily silent. Mysteriously, achingly, as Hudson grew older, his words became trapped inside him. The parental panic of watching our son withdraw from the world and then from us - fearful, restless, angry - was not only painful, it was disorienting. The direction I thought we were headed, the places I had hung my values, were no longer relevant to my life. It became shockingly apparent that what was important had very little to do with scores, rankings or external measures of success. And while I thought I already knew this, our new reality shed light onto the superficiality of my ideals and demanded a shift of paradigm. As Helen Keller reflected in a letter to Rev. Phillip Brookes in 1891, "The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen nor even touched, but [must be] felt with the heart". From someone else these words could seem quaint and rather trite, but as a Deafblind activist with her own torturous childhood of silence and frustration, Keller's words sit heavy with me. As an adult, the noisy demands of life often attach themselves to numbers and figures, deadlines and dot points. As an educator I watch young people adapt to the world of comparison and evaluation all too quickly, often confusing assessment with their sense of intrinsic value. We are bombarded, every day, with messaging that can make us feel like we need to measure up. I wrote this book because I wanted to point towards other metrics of worth. Things like generosity and courage, wonder and curiosity. Loyalty, determination, pride, love - these are all things that imbue our lives with meaning, and they are the things that we remember long after we've forgotten things like times, places, scores or rankings. This book, then, is not just about the measuring tape, it's about presenting the profound truth that the most wondrous, awe-inspiring things cannot be put on a scale or measured with a ruler or an altimeter. We already know that, but sometimes we all need a little reminding. While Hudson's words remain trapped inside of him right now, his ideas remain just as expansive. He shows us every day that things don't have to be quantified or even seen or heard to be real, hold weight and be of tremendous value. We were going through a phase with measuring tapes. Pulling out the taut metal band and recoiling as it snapped back into its heavy yellow box. Go slowly. See the numbers? We can use it to measure how big something is. Hudson was a bit over two at the time and our world was one of happy chatter. He sang songs to me and would parrot lines from his favourite books. We spent sunny winter days making tiny and significant discoveries at the beach, painting with our hands and learning the names of all the whales. It was on one of these idyllic days, stretching out a measuring tape across anything we could find in the backyard, that he turned his earnest face toward me and asked, "How big is the sky?" As with all good questions from children, it made me reconsider what I thought I knew. At the time, he described the world to us with imagery and nuance. He was also captivated by measuring tapes, the ocean and all the secrets that it holds. In a pre-maternity life, I taught secondary school English literature. That is where, perhaps somewhat surprisingly, I became enamoured with picture books. One may expect that I would have formed a bond earlier, say, in my own childhood. But I can't remember anything before early readers (my favourite of which was the zany and enigmatic Go Dog Go by P. D. Eastman). The books I was finding as a teacher were, however, unlike anything I had read before - they felt strangely opulent, magnanimous in their imagery and ideas. Imagine! A tiny gallery that you can hold in your hands! I would pour over the works of Shaun Tan and Armin Greder and ask teenagers questions about wonder and urbanisation, otherness and the politics of belonging. That was when the seed fell and pressed itself into the dormant soil of a full-time teacher: one day I would make my own tiny galleries rich with ideas and beauty. When the measuring tape couldn't stretch across the vast cerulean ceiling above us, I knew it was time. The idea was elegant enough - some things simply cannot be measured. My debut picture book, How Big is the Sky?, begins by introducing young readers to scientific and mathematical concepts such as distance, weight and volume along with the instruments used to measure them. Drawing us into the world of a child as he sets off on an oceanic adventure with his family, the quantitative science extends to the immaterial in an exploration to find "the most important things" - because, while many things in our world can be counted, other things aren't so easy to measure. Like the warmth of laughter or love that's as limitless as the sky. How do you measure the immeasurable things? It is impossible to talk about this book without talking about my son. Not only because it is his idea that is painted across the cover, but because he has radically reframed what the "important things" are for me. During the years it took to envision and bring this book into existence, my son lost his ability to speak. As I fussed over early manuscripts and submitted illustrated drafts through a global pandemic, beside me, the songs and chatter of my son grew eerily silent. Mysteriously, achingly, as Hudson grew older, his words became trapped inside him. The parental panic of watching our son withdraw from the world and then from us - fearful, restless, angry - was not only painful, it was disorienting. The direction I thought we were headed, the places I had hung my values, were no longer relevant to my life. It became shockingly apparent that what was important had very little to do with scores, rankings or external measures of success. And while I thought I already knew this, our new reality shed light onto the superficiality of my ideals and demanded a shift of paradigm. As Helen Keller reflected in a letter to Rev. Phillip Brookes in 1891, "The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen nor even touched, but [must be] felt with the heart". From someone else these words could seem quaint and rather trite, but as a Deafblind activist with her own torturous childhood of silence and frustration, Keller's words sit heavy with me. As an adult, the noisy demands of life often attach themselves to numbers and figures, deadlines and dot points. As an educator I watch young people adapt to the world of comparison and evaluation all too quickly, often confusing assessment with their sense of intrinsic value. We are bombarded, every day, with messaging that can make us feel like we need to measure up. I wrote this book because I wanted to point towards other metrics of worth. Things like generosity and courage, wonder and curiosity. Loyalty, determination, pride, love - these are all things that imbue our lives with meaning, and they are the things that we remember long after we've forgotten things like times, places, scores or rankings. This book, then, is not just about the measuring tape, it's about presenting the profound truth that the most wondrous, awe-inspiring things cannot be put on a scale or measured with a ruler or an altimeter. We already know that, but sometimes we all need a little reminding. While Hudson's words remain trapped inside of him right now, his ideas remain just as expansive. He shows us every day that things don't have to be quantified or even seen or heard to be real, hold weight and be of tremendous value.
Courier-Mail
13 hours ago
- Courier-Mail
Royal cousin's ‘traumatic' cause of death revealed
Don't miss out on the headlines from Royals. Followed categories will be added to My News. The 'traumatic' cause of Prince William and Prince Harry's cousin's death has been revealed. 20-year-old Rosie Roche died of a 'traumatic head injury', the Wiltshire and Swindon coronor confirmed, as per Page Six. No further details were given. As reported yesterday, an inquest heard that Roche, granddaughter of Princess Diana's uncle, died at her family home in the small English village of Norton on July 14. The Sun reported that Roche's body was discovered by her mother and sister, and that she had been packing for a trip away with friends. Rosie Roche has died aged 20. She was a cousin to Princes William and Harry. Picture: AFP MORE: King Charles' savvy $33bn side hustle Area coroner Grant Davies said police 'have deemed the death as non-suspicious and there was no third-party involvement,' according to The Sun. Roche was a university student who had been studying English Literature at Durham University at the time of her death. Princes Harry and William are yet to publicly comment on their cousin's death. The Yorkshire Post published her obituary on July 19, noting that Roche will have a private family funeral and a memorial service will be held at a later date. In the obituary, she was described as 'darling daughter of Hugh and Pippa, incredible sister to Archie and Agatha [and] granddaughter to Derek and Rae Long.' Roche's death comes after another sudden passing rocked the royal family last year. Lady Gabriella and Thomas Kingston were married in St George's Chapel in May 2019. MORE: Prince Williams' dodgy $1.5b property empire revealed Thomas Kingston, the husband of royal cousin Lady Gabriella Windsor and former boyfriend of Pippa Middleton, was found dead in February of last year aged 45. An inquest later deemed his death 'not suspicious.' Kingston had been visiting his parents at their home in the Cotswolds when his father found him dead. 'It is with the deepest sorrow that we announce the death of Thomas Kingston, our beloved husband, son and brother,' a statement issued on behalf of Lady Gabriella and his family said shortly after his death. 'Tom was an exceptional man who lit up the lives of all who knew him. His death has come as a great shock to the whole family and we ask you to respect our privacy as we mourn his passing.' Originally published as Royal cousin's 'traumatic' cause of death revealed
