On April 29, Prince William and the Duchess of Cambridge will toast to two years of nuptial bliss, but the fervor surrounding them since their televised Westminster Abbey wedding has hardly fizzled. As Catherine’s mid-July due date nears, gamblers are stacking their chips on all nuances of royal baby trivia.

Gambling on the royal family is a British tradition. Rupert Adams, a public-relations manager at William Hill, one of the U.K.’s largest bookmakers, says his firm has racked up £70,000 in royal-related bets, with £15,000 taken in since the pregnancy announcement. The wagers are almost entirely small scale—a few pence here, a couple pounds there—just good, old-fashioned patriotic fun.

With two simple words (“I’m in”) the fantastic fourth season of CBS legal drama The Good Wife came to a staggering conclusion on Sunday evening with the revelation that Alicia Florrick (Julianna Margulies), Illinois’s newly minted first lady, would be leaving Lockhart/Gardner to join the startup firm captained by former rival Cary Agos (Matt Czuchry).

The move effectively reboots the show, which will return for a fifth season in the fall. What will Alicia’s decision mean for her star-crossed romance with Will Gardner (Josh Charles) once he gets wind of her betrayal? And what does it mean for The Good Wife that its main characters are being split up and established as potential adversaries?

Life doesn’t often mirror fairytales, but it did for Kirsty Sword Gusmão, whose trajectory from a grassroots activist to the first lady of a fledgling nation is a modern-day twist on the peasant-to-princess archetype.

Since the December 2008 arrest of Bernie Madoff, Eleanor Squillari’s boss for 25 years, she has been waging a very public struggle to come to terms with a disturbing anomaly in her life: how could she have been the personal secretary to the worst financial criminal in history, managing his travel schedule, keeping track of his business records, and acting as his gatekeeper, and yet have suspected nothing right up until the moment that an army of FBI agents stormed the plush midtown Manhattan offices of Bernard L. Madoff Investment Securities LLC?

A 9,000-word as-told-to piece in Vanity Fair (which compared Squillari’s ignorance of the evil under her nose to that of Traudl Junge, Adolf Hitler’s secretary) and confessional interviews on the Today show and Good Morning America were apparently not enough to soothe her guilty conscience. Now, in Squillari’s latest conspicuous attempt to make sense of it all—and once again proclaim to the world that she didn’t know! about Madoff’s $65 billion Ponzi scheme—she stars in a feature-length documentary about Madoff’s disastrous treachery, In God We Trust, which premiered this month at the Tribeca Film Festival.

I am sitting at an expansive wooden conference table in the basement of the painfully hip Ace Hotel in New York City, snacking on pepperoni, drinking the hotel’s painfully hip spring water, and listening to a man who is excitedly telling me about the future.

But it’s hard to pay attention.

10. George W. Bush Time Lapse

Watch this fascinating time lapse of the construction of the George W. Bush Presidential Center, that is. 

She might be estranged from her sorority sisters at Delta Gamma, but Rebecca Martinson is now a household name, though some would say for all the wrong reasons. In the span of one week (an eon in Internet time), the sorority girl has risen from total obscurity to viral star to yesterday’s news.

Why? Her scathing, unintentionally hysterical letter to her fellow sorority sisters, chiding them for being so effing lame, first turned up on April 18 on Gawker and Deadspin, and quickly caught fire on the Internet. Faster than you could click and email that link, Martinson was on her way to the Internet Hall of Fame—and subsequently the Hall of Shame. Consider your neck snapped.

George Jones had one supreme talent. He could sing. Every time this country star stepped up to a microphone and opened his mouth, you heard something inimitable, something that might be copied but never successfully imitated. No one else could sing like he could, and no one ever will.

Jones, who died Friday, April 26 at 81, was not much of a songwriter or a guitar player. He wasn’t particularly good looking, and his spangly nudie suits weren’t any more outrageous than any other sartorial extravanganzas on the Grand Ole Opry (although it’s worth noting that he was one of the very last country and western stars to stick with a flat-top haircut). But every time he wrapped his voice around a lyric, he owned it.