
So Ellen has fled Trump's US for a ‘simpler' life in the Cotswolds. Nice if you have the money, don't you think?
It's different this time because the threat is different, but for anyone living in the US who has glanced, longingly, towards Europe or Canada and wondered about the possibility of moving, comments made by Ellen DeGeneres this week may strike a familiar note; specifically, the extraordinary tone deafness that only high net-worth individuals can hit when trying to share in a common experience. DeGeneres and her wife, the actor Portia de Rossi, moved to rural Oxfordshire last year and this week, DeGeneres was interviewed on stage in Cheltenham and gave us some insight into exactly what happened.
'We got here [to England] the day before the election and we woke up to lots of texts from our friends and crying emojis,' said DeGeneres, to a crowd of 600 or so at the Everyman theatre. 'We were like, 'We're staying here, we're not going back, we are not leaving.' So yeah, we bought a house that we thought was going to be a part-time house then we decided we needed a different house and now we're selling that house. If anybody wants a house. It's a beautiful house. It's a beautiful stone farmhouse.'
A lot to unpack here, obviously, but let's start with 'we're selling that house / if anybody wants a house / it's a beautiful house'. As anyone who has moved countries knows, there are all sorts of problems to be solved in the first flush of arrival, chief among them panic-buying the first eight-figure house you stumble across and then wondering what to do with the horses. So it was that, while the property to which DeGeneres refers has a pool, a helipad and what E! News described this week as a 'party barn' – which they may or may not believe to be common British usage – sadly it doesn't have a big enough stable. 'Portia couldn't live without her horses,' DeGeneres told the Wall Street Journal this week – there but for the grace of God, etc – anyway if anybody wants it, it's on for £22.5m and the Daily Mail has all the details.
There are, of course, real reasons for Americans in general and DeGeneres and her wife in particular to want to flee the US and at the existential level, fear of Trump can strike anyone. During the talk in Cheltenham, the former talkshow host spoke about the threat posed by the US president to LGBTQ+ communities, mentioning in particular the revived enthusiasm among certain Christian sects in the US for rowing back federal protection of same-sex marriage. If necessary, said DeGeneres, the pair would remarry in Britain.
But it is also true that, like wealthy women seeking an abortion before 1973 or in southern states today, there is almost no bind that money can't buy you out of – in this case, moving countries without any of the customary friction. And so DeGeneres and her wife find themselves newly absorbed into the immigrant-expat continuum, occupied at one end by undocumented immigrants being seized and deported in the US by Immigration and Customs Enforcement and at the other, by those so wealthy they can go on holiday and seemingly decide, on a whim, to stay for ever. Each experience is attended by different rules, terminologies and demonisations, and is subject to sometimes fiercely defended distinctions from other, less favourable categories.
For instance, I remember making the mistake, once, of asking an American friend about her grandparents' emigration to the US from Europe, assuming rather romantically that they'd gone through Ellis Island. She looked appalled and informed me, crossly, that they'd come in on an ocean liner and docked directly in the city, the family piano safely crated in the hold. No one on that boat was inspected for head lice. 'We were legal.' Those belonging to communities targeted by Trump who also voted for Trump are less baffling when you consider these differences.
None of which, of course, pertains to Ellen DeGeneres, who is worth the sort of money (an estimated $450m) that makes the visa problem faced by most Americans hoping to move away from Trump – or stay in the US in spite of Trump – disappear. Still, even among the elite, moving entails a steep learning curve. The new house DeGeneres and her wife have moved into isn't far from the old one but is a much newer building, enabling the Mail to prod one local into calling it a 'monstrosity', and a possibly different local into saying 'it looks like a prison'.
DeGeneres, meanwhile, is still in the honeymoon period, and finding it all very beautiful. As she told the crowd at Cheltenham this week, she considers her new compatriots 'polite,' the life here 'simpler', and has reached the conclusion that, 'everything here is better'. Whether that's the charms of the English countryside or the insulating effect of super-wealth we can't know for sure. Either way, we look forward to watching the progress of the entertainer's application to put up a large stable in an area of outstanding natural beauty make its way through the famously helpful and accommodating English planning authorities. Ellen, welcome to Britain!
Emma Brockes is a Guardian columnist
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But, you know, the internet's intriguing and nothing if not potent, so they went for a beer with a person who plays Fifa on YouTube: CapgunTom, who now has 980,000 subscribers. 'He very quickly analysed our content and said, 'Hold on. Anyone around the world can tune in and watch my Fifa YouTube, but you have to be quite interested in Bermondsey if you want to watch a 'best sandwiches in Bermondsey' film. Why don't you try to do more global guides?' So we decided to go abroad.' In 2019, four years after they'd first launched Topjaw, Burgess and Warr took a video camera to Paris. 'We called it '48 Hours in Paris', even though we only had 36 hours,' Burgess says. 'We went without a plan; got the Eurostar. We had a note from a chef — Maxime Alary from Blanchette; he's from Paris — and he said, 'Go to this bakery that I absolutely love. It's the best boulangerie in France.' So that [Du Pain et des Idées] was the first stop on our tour. From then on we just went to wherever someone next told us. A local or someone would say, 'Oh, go here,' or, 'Go there.' ' They accidentally created a definitive locals' guide to Parisian food. That film became Topjaw's first breakout viral hit. Warr and Burgess were making another film in Bangkok when 'the Paris film was booting off. It was just such an exciting moment,' Warr says. How did it feel? 'Nuts, because finally it was, 'This is what it's like,' ' Burgess says. 'You'd refresh it and have another 10-20,000 views and a load of comments: 'Thank you YouTube for finally recommending something good.' ' Yet that was still not quite that for Topjaw. Covid struck. Restaurants and travel shut down at the precise point Burgess and Warr were getting somewhere with their… side hustle? 'I wouldn't even say 'hustle', because it didn't make any money,' Burgess says. 'It was a 'side passion project'.' Another thing that happened during Covid was that incredibly short-form video content, like Instagram Reels and TikTok, boomed. 'That whole dynamic of being on your phone and flicking,' Burgess says, flicking his thumb to illustrate the speed with which those films are consumed, 'that process didn't really exist pre-2020. We were watching so many reels and shorts but not making them. We turned up our noses a bit because we like making these long 20-minute stories — but maybe we shouldn't do that.' By the beginning of 2023, Warr and Burgess had reached a 'bit of a crossroads with Topjaw', Burgess says, 'where it wasn't really making any money. We thought, 'OK, we either pack this in because life's getting busy — Will was starting a family — or we pack everything else in and really go full-on Topjaw.' ' They decided to go full-on Topjaw. They started out with 'about £70,000' in a bank account — Burgess had been smart by investing his modelling money into properties, doing them up and selling them on — and 'about 70,000 followers on Instagram'. They took both, along with their new vision of short, sharp video content, and started their revolution. Their first film was with Dom Fernando of Paradise in central London. They didn't run it by Fernando first. 'We knew him, so we just dropped in. We knocked on his door and said, 'Do you fancy just giving us five minutes?' ' Warr says, which Fernando did before 'walking us round Soho, introducing us to other chefs in restaurants: 'Hey, can you come out?' And we caught Diana Alvarez [of Cantabrian Kitchen] on her break outside. It was quite funny — people were happy at that stage to really speak their minds because they thought, 'Well, where's this gonna go?' ' And Topjaw began to fly. When did they realise they were famous? 'Oh, I mean, occasionally we get stopped even from our original Paris video in 2019,' Burgess says. 'But the frequency has definitely steadily increased. Everyone's really lovely. 'You get the occasional person who runs 100 metres after us to say, 'What's the best restaurant in London?' Then you see the look on their face as they go, 'I have not thought this through.' But generally, obviously, we're so happy that someone watches our stuff. I mean, I was with blimming David Beckham on Monday.' How come? 'It was something at Wimbledon. He was lovely. Shook his hand — softly, 'cos he's got a broken hand. I said, 'Oh, have you ever seen any of the Topjaw stuff?' And he went, 'Yeah, I've watched loads of it.' Started talking about ones he really liked. That is crazy. Blimming David Beckham! What an awesome god.' Is Becks going to do a Topjaw film? 'Yes. Our teams have connected. We'll do a couple of fun bits. He loves pubs, so…' The pub with Becks and Topjaw it is. Idris Elba has already done one ('He has an aura,' Burgess says. 'A presence, yeah,' Warr says. 'He makes your organs fall out of your arse,' Burgess adds), and Florence Pugh. They did a film with Rishi Sunak too, in the dying days of his premiership. But their subscribers responded so badly, they took it down. 'We learnt something from that,' Burgess says. 'You get an offer and …' Ah. So Sunak came to you? 'Yeah. At first you think, 'Oh wow, that is very flattering.' When we've worked for so long on something, then to be recognised by… Despite what we may think of the person. The offer itself was like, 'Holy shit.' But we will never work with a politician again.' I ask if anyone's turned them down — restaurateur or celebrity. 'We really don't reach out that much,' Burgess says. 'But one person [we did approach] and were really trying to get was Alison Hammond.' Alison Hammond turned you down? 'Too busy.' Success as suddenly acquired as Topjaw's inevitably inspires tension among certain parties — particularly those with fortunes that depend on operations like Topjaw's not undermining their influence and, potentially, revenue streams. One very established restaurant critic wrote an extensive article on the phenomenon, one that acknowledged their impact but took care to lampoon their poshness, their eagerness, the money they take from advertisers (which they do — but selectively, they tell me: 'Stella Artois, Google'), and their goofy 'bro' schtick. 'Ah, you're never gonna get to the size we are without having people throwing peanuts from the gallery to make them feel better about themselves,' Burgess says. I marvel at his permanent condition of easy-breeziness. Doesn't that level of joviality ever become exhausting? 'Yes. Sometimes I can be really dead, really tired, but then I'm looking at the lens and I'm fine.' I ask them what the ultimate game plan is. Burgess, who is getting married a fortnight after I meet him, is to appear on a new Gordon Ramsay-produced Apple TV+ show called Knife Edge: Chasing Michelin Stars, in which he'll go behind the scenes in the kitchens of restaurants attempting to win Michelin stars. But as far as Topjaw is concerned, 'I know it sounds silly, but we sort of want more of the same,' Burgess says. 'We've only just found our groove after all these years,' Warr says. I ask them what 'Topjaw' means. 'Good question,' Burgess says. 'We called it Topjaw before we'd even made our first video. 'We can't really remember why or where we got the name from, but what we do like about it is that j-a-w — Jesse and Will.' I ask them how they don't get fat. 'I can't imagine my internals are in particularly good nick,' Warr says. Finally, I ask them the question I have taken, over recent years, to asking all the foodies I interview. I've asked Stanley Tucci and I've asked Tom Parker Bowles. Jesse and Will, tell me: if you had to choose between food and sex for the rest of your lives, which would it be? It's worth noting that both Tucci and Parker Bowles stammered and grimaced and boggled and ultimately refused to answer. 'Food,' Burgess says without hesitating. 'Oh, food, man,' Warr agrees. 'I gave you a beat as well. I was like, I'm not gonna say 'food' before you finish saying 'sex',' Burgess says. Brilliant, I say.