Since the weather was so hot I decided to make as little as possible. A 32-degree damp sofa is a boiling sponge, and the prospect of exploring dozens of channels and oil-free summer grills in just an hour, or applying twice to Twins decor, is already making me sweat a lot. That’s why I hit the Surprise Me button on Netflix, the invention I’ve been dreaming of for subscribers prone to binge and boredom like me. After several failed attempts, the television prophet presents me the reality show starring Tamara Falcó. Frankly, I don’t know what I did to deserve this. The darker and more decadent the better all mystery and detective dramas are, I tend to devour the movies recommended by the critics, even the very boring ones. I’ve seen Borgen twice in its entirety; The fourth season of Kingdom, power, and glory engulfed the ice in three days with hot flashes. I’ve seen After Life in its entirety twice and it shows Ricky Gervais au naturel (not suitable for Equality ministers and courts). I love Rick. I liked Peaky Blinders and Black Mirror. I see every Scandinavian black epic I can get my hands on. Why are they serving me the Marquise of Griñón and his aristocratic bullshit on a plate? Because I saw The Crown? The algorithm underestimates me. It must have stuck with the fact that I used to dream about the first season of A place at a certain moment when my blood sugar dropped. Or maybe my taste for Christmas stories (only on Christmas) has put me in the cows drawer. In any case, I’m not going to cover the six episodes of the television adventure of Isabel Preysler’s impressed daughter setting up a makeshift restaurant in a castle, the proposal seems insulting to me. Not the hook that Vargas Llosa appears on the show, but there with his family after meals. I’ve never seen reality shows in my life, they don’t suit me: neither OT, nor Big Brother, nor Masterchef, nor The Voice. I know they exist and they glorify people like this Tamara to offer revelations like she’d rather sit at home praying for the rosary than go out for a drink, have a boyfriend and a newly decorated apartment. It’s a little more effort and great talent. I just prefer fiction to reality TV.
The same platform bombarded me earlier in the year for the premiere of Cristiano Ronaldo’s documentary about his mother, influencer, businesswoman, and partner, Georgina Rodríguez, not in that exact order. Soy Georgina was the name of the program that delves into the biography of the young woman who unleashed her pride as a new wealth in the golden age of journalistic investigation. I didn’t see him. Maybe the algorithm noted that I rejected our national Kardashian’s polygon changes, so she tried her luck with the dick Tamara on their opposite end. But neither one nor the other. I don’t know who chooses our contemporaries to examine them, and by what criteria, but Victoria Federica de Marichalar will be next to surprise me at this rate. Now that I could, I had to do something about it. Because a few years ago, when TV was free, the only sources were zapping and anger. Now my friends have been calling her chef, from her girlfriend telling me how a football player got stuck on the deck of a yacht, to the daughter of a celebrity who won a cooking contest after she lost twenty pounds, and ever since. . Paying for it is such a crime that at some point I will have to make a drastic decision. As soon as this temperature drops.
Source: Informacion
Barbara Dickson is a seasoned writer for “Social Bites”. She keeps readers informed on the latest news and trends, providing in-depth coverage and analysis on a variety of topics.