"Ummm, Janey..." said Emily, while a few of us were seated around Kate's kitchen table last night, "are you... wearing hotpants?" I winced and nodded slowly.
"I think I might be, yes," I said.
I had already been told that they looked great by Kate and Joanna, but that is not the point. Yesterday morning, I examined myself in my bedroom mirror. "I do not need to worry," I thought. "These shorts are suitable for work - they are grey wool shorts and I am wearing them over opaque black tights with high heels and a black round-neck jumper. I look preppy and efficient." Then I arrived at work and took off my coat. As is so often the case, the lighting and atmosphere in my bedroom had been somewhat different to the vibe in my office. I had a moment of Damascene clarity. I was at work. Wearing hotpants. Grey hotpants.
I was in a quandary: should I admit my fashion crisis, or attempt to persuade everyone that my choice was fine by pretending everything was exactly normal and that coming to work out of the blue wearing a pair of microshorts was a perfectly laudable decision to make on a Thursday? I considered going to the shops and buying an alternative garment for my lower half, but as soon as anyone had seen me in the shorts, this option was rendered impossible, as the logical conclusion anyone would draw having seen me change from the shorts into an alternative would be: her bum was too big for her shorts and they ripped. I had to stay in them, and I had to act confident.
I resolved to move around as little as possible, and keep my beshorted legs under my desk, so it was then inevitable that I was asked to run more errands than I'd ever been asked to run before. I was sent back and forth to the vending area, to the post tray, to get things signed, a never-ending stream of reasons meant that I had to stand up continually and show people more of my thighs than anyone would ever choose to see. Two or three people visibly double-took when I walked by them, and I can assure you, it was at my audacity, not my legs. When you are used to someone dressing relatively normally and then they turn up to work wearing an outfit that would not look out of place on Rihanna at the Manchester GMEx, it can be a bit shocking.
Today I am wearing a demure polo-necked dress that comes down to below my knees. I feel safer. As, I'm sure, do my colleagues, who don't have to fear a flash of my cellulite every time they look up from their spreadsheets. Lesson well and truly learned.
Showing posts with label Fashion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fashion. Show all posts
Friday, 28 January 2011
Wednesday, 26 January 2011
Do Not Read This Post
Topics I feel I should write about:
- Obama's State of the Nation address
- Osborne blaming the economy on the weather
- My aching upper body and how I think climbing might be the world's greatest cure for bingo wings ever
Topics I have the energy to write about:
- A big, fat zero in a harness
I got home yesterday full of good intentions for a productive evening at home. I was initially efficient, cleaning my bathroom and the 'utility area' where the plumbing work had created a lot of dirt, and then making peppers stuffed with couscous. At 8pm I sat down on my sofa with the intention of checking my emails and then starting to write. At 8:30pm, my eyes were stinging so much that one actually released a tear. I admitted defeat and went to bed, where I did some meditation and was asleep at 9:15pm. Woke up at 8:05am this morning. Just under 11 hours sleep. Something is not right. Maybe it's still hormones. Maybe it's that I'm so old now that I am STILL catching up from my 4am night on Saturday, even though I slept for 11 hours on Sunday night too. If that's the case, I find it seriously unfunny. I can't be sleeping this much on a regular basis, life's far too short as it is. Growl.
Here endeth the World's Dullest Blog Post, which I sincerely hope marks LLFF's nadir. I never know if it's better to write this than not write at all. I'd normally argue for quality over quantity but apparently in the blogosphere, different rules apply, and you need to go for frequency above all else. Meh. Shut up.
In other news, I desperately want this dress. I actually think I would look better than Angie in it, such is the scale and unpredictable nature of my body image. If anyone is stuck for a Happy January present to get me, this would be a good start. I don't need the Brad Pitt, she can keep him.
Thursday, 7 October 2010
Major hitch
Just a quick one tonight as I'm sitting in St. Pancras International, waiting for the Eurostar to speed me to gay Paris, but I wanted to have a quick pre-France rant about my wondrous new Moroccan carpet bag, thrilling in design and quite probably disgustingly over-priced, beautifully kitsch, covered in peacocks. Note to creator of such bags: you should mention on the label that this bag may look all well and good in the shop or on one's bedroom floor, but when carried along over one's shoulders with the handily-provided shoulder straps, the friction created by the rubbing of one's hips against the carpet fabric causes one's DRESS TO RIDE UP AS ONE IS WALKING ALONG, COMPLETELY unbeknownst to you, meaning that COMPLETE STRANGERS HAIL YOU as you are talking to your father on your mobile phone and say "Hey! HEY!" and then point at their ass, and you don't know what the hell they are going on about and you smile politely and keep on walking and they shout, "HEY!" again, even louder this time, and you think you must be on fire or perhaps you dropped your passport or are about to walk into a lion's den, but then you realise that the reality is in fact far worse and your dress has ridden up over your buttocks so all pretty much anyone walking behind you can see is your arse, thankfully covered in opaque black tights, but still.
The label should say that. It should be a legal requirement.
Right. Platform 10. I'm off.
The label should say that. It should be a legal requirement.
Right. Platform 10. I'm off.
Wednesday, 11 August 2010
Faily Candy
Faithful LLFF readers will know that much of what I do is profoundly stupid. One previously undiscussed example is my habit of signing up for, and then regularly reading, email newsletters that do nothing except send me into a mild rage. The principle rage-inducing email newsletter is Daily Candy, which is less candy and more upper-middle-class, Notting Hill millionaires trying to keep their finger on the pulse between worrying about serving non-organic lamb koftas at their second baby’s Christening and jetting off to St. Moritz for a spa weekend.
But still I receive it, because once every six thousand days, they send me something that’s quite good. The other five thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine days, they send me something that has me gnashing my teeth and wanting to force glass shards into the eye sockets of everyone involved in its production.
Today’s really took the biscuit. Witness the opening sentence:
“No matter how much you’ve paid for it, how close it is to your house or how hot your spinning instructor, you rarely find the motivation to hit the gym.”
Don’t tell me about my gym motivation, biatch. You don’t know me. And actually, let’s look closer. A) You assume I have enough money for a gym membership. An expensive gym membership. Growl. B) You assume I have a HOUSE. C) You assume I have a ‘spinning instructor’ – a hot one – and that his hotness might inspire me to go to his class, sweat heavily and be very bad at something in front of him. Right.
Breathe. Continue to sentence two:
“But we’ve got something that’ll put a spring in your step: Lucas Hugh, a new sportswear brand with all the comfort of your boyfriend’s baggy T-shirt and practicality of your sports bra — but with razor-sharp fashion styling.”
Oh, how wrong I was! You know me perfectly! The thing that will put a spring in my step, the very thing that is most likely to make me bounce down the street like I’ve just stepped out of the salon, is a NEW SPORTSWEAR BRAND. I’ll let the reference to my NON-EXISTENT BOYFRIEND slide, because you’re clearly so spot on with my desire for gym clothes that have ‘razor-sharp fashion styling’. Chuck away the anti-depressants, call off the dogs, I’ve found razor-sharp sportswear. THANK YOU. But wait! I desperately need more information! Bring on sentence three:
“Work it out catwalk style in a body-contouring leotard with subtle mesh inserts, hipster graphic-print leggings or colour-contrast darting (flattering on the hips).”
Ah. OK. If I were to compile a list of things I am not likely to exercise wearing, it would probably read something like this:
1. Nothing.
2. LEOTARD.
I mean. What complete maniac, what total deviant thinks that, as one jogs on a treadmill, the best outfit to wear is a long-sleeved swimming costume? Because I think they need to be shot. Unless the subtle-mesh inserts are, in fact, head-to-toe, Teflon-strength webbing panels that squeeze the wearer’s body into the exact size of Heidi Klum, I am not interested. Equally, let’s discuss ‘hipster’ leggings with ‘colour-contrast darting’. Let me tell you, you twunt of a fashion stylist, it’s going to take more than a bit of GCSE art training in complimentary colours to make my hips look good in a pair of leggings. Like liposuction. Or global blindness.
Sentence four:
“Futuristic details that bring function to form include headphone eyelets and strategically placed pockets for your BlackBerry or iPod.”
Erm. I don’t know what generation you’re from, fucktard, but where I live that’s not a futuristic detail, it’s a normal sportswear feature. What exciting touch are you going to flag up next? Holes in the fabric for your arms and head?
Sentence five:
“Glued-seam technology (as used by Olympian Michael Phelps) will help you run like the wind, but we reckon what’ll really get you going is that the printed bodysuits, wet-look short shorts and blouson tops look just as good in the pub as they do on the treadmill.”
Stop. Right. There. Wet-look short shorts. Without question, these sound like the most revolting garment in the history of clothing. If I ever, EVER thought that wearing a pair was a good idea, you can be certain that I would be on a lot of hallucinogenic drugs and should be popped into The Priory for a long spell of introspection. The imagined sight of me running in a pair brought tears of self-pity to my eyes. Then there’s the idea that it’s the technology behind the seams that has been holding me back all these years – if only they’d been glued, not sewn, I’d be bounding round the marathon in under three hours. Well at last I know. And blouson tops and printed bodysuits – I’m quite sure I would look splendid wearing them in the pub – I’ll give that a try. How much did you say this stuff was?
Sentence six:
“Available online at www.lucashugh.com, £60-£280.”
Dear Lucas Hugh and the writers of Daily Candy,
You make me sick. Stay away from my life forever.
Yours,
Lost Looking For Fish
But still I receive it, because once every six thousand days, they send me something that’s quite good. The other five thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine days, they send me something that has me gnashing my teeth and wanting to force glass shards into the eye sockets of everyone involved in its production.
Today’s really took the biscuit. Witness the opening sentence:
“No matter how much you’ve paid for it, how close it is to your house or how hot your spinning instructor, you rarely find the motivation to hit the gym.”
Don’t tell me about my gym motivation, biatch. You don’t know me. And actually, let’s look closer. A) You assume I have enough money for a gym membership. An expensive gym membership. Growl. B) You assume I have a HOUSE. C) You assume I have a ‘spinning instructor’ – a hot one – and that his hotness might inspire me to go to his class, sweat heavily and be very bad at something in front of him. Right.
Breathe. Continue to sentence two:
“But we’ve got something that’ll put a spring in your step: Lucas Hugh, a new sportswear brand with all the comfort of your boyfriend’s baggy T-shirt and practicality of your sports bra — but with razor-sharp fashion styling.”
Oh, how wrong I was! You know me perfectly! The thing that will put a spring in my step, the very thing that is most likely to make me bounce down the street like I’ve just stepped out of the salon, is a NEW SPORTSWEAR BRAND. I’ll let the reference to my NON-EXISTENT BOYFRIEND slide, because you’re clearly so spot on with my desire for gym clothes that have ‘razor-sharp fashion styling’. Chuck away the anti-depressants, call off the dogs, I’ve found razor-sharp sportswear. THANK YOU. But wait! I desperately need more information! Bring on sentence three:
“Work it out catwalk style in a body-contouring leotard with subtle mesh inserts, hipster graphic-print leggings or colour-contrast darting (flattering on the hips).”
Ah. OK. If I were to compile a list of things I am not likely to exercise wearing, it would probably read something like this:
1. Nothing.
2. LEOTARD.
I mean. What complete maniac, what total deviant thinks that, as one jogs on a treadmill, the best outfit to wear is a long-sleeved swimming costume? Because I think they need to be shot. Unless the subtle-mesh inserts are, in fact, head-to-toe, Teflon-strength webbing panels that squeeze the wearer’s body into the exact size of Heidi Klum, I am not interested. Equally, let’s discuss ‘hipster’ leggings with ‘colour-contrast darting’. Let me tell you, you twunt of a fashion stylist, it’s going to take more than a bit of GCSE art training in complimentary colours to make my hips look good in a pair of leggings. Like liposuction. Or global blindness.
Sentence four:
“Futuristic details that bring function to form include headphone eyelets and strategically placed pockets for your BlackBerry or iPod.”
Erm. I don’t know what generation you’re from, fucktard, but where I live that’s not a futuristic detail, it’s a normal sportswear feature. What exciting touch are you going to flag up next? Holes in the fabric for your arms and head?
Sentence five:
“Glued-seam technology (as used by Olympian Michael Phelps) will help you run like the wind, but we reckon what’ll really get you going is that the printed bodysuits, wet-look short shorts and blouson tops look just as good in the pub as they do on the treadmill.”
Stop. Right. There. Wet-look short shorts. Without question, these sound like the most revolting garment in the history of clothing. If I ever, EVER thought that wearing a pair was a good idea, you can be certain that I would be on a lot of hallucinogenic drugs and should be popped into The Priory for a long spell of introspection. The imagined sight of me running in a pair brought tears of self-pity to my eyes. Then there’s the idea that it’s the technology behind the seams that has been holding me back all these years – if only they’d been glued, not sewn, I’d be bounding round the marathon in under three hours. Well at last I know. And blouson tops and printed bodysuits – I’m quite sure I would look splendid wearing them in the pub – I’ll give that a try. How much did you say this stuff was?
Sentence six:
“Available online at www.lucashugh.com, £60-£280.”
Dear Lucas Hugh and the writers of Daily Candy,
You make me sick. Stay away from my life forever.
Yours,
Lost Looking For Fish
Wednesday, 9 June 2010
Bad investment
Hmm, I thought to myself when I saw this photo (among others) on a newsletter that arrived in my email inbox a short while ago. That is a nice vest. It has straps that are at once thin, yet also thick enough to give some definition to my possibly on the broad side shoulders. It is low cut, but not trampy. And it has buttons, that can be unbuttoned to enhance cleavage on a trampy day or, perhaps, a tanned and toned naval region. Maybe I'll buy one, I thought. I clicked the link to the website and then realised abruptly that I was about as likely to buy this vest as I am to give birth to a set of Royal Doulton china, soup tureen first. The vest, the flimsy, basically just a vest vest, is FIFTY FOUR POUNDS AND NINETY FIVE PENCE. Basically, it is £55. Which is more than half a hundred pounds. Half a hundred POUNDS. Other things I could buy for £55 include (but are not limited to): fifty five vests from Primark (admittedly not with button enhancements); five thousand five hundred Kola Woppas; 6.918 Fiorentinas from Pizza Express (that is nearly seven whole delicious pizzas); forty six Soreen Malt Loaves; or a flight from London Stansted to SPAIN OR TURKEY for £45.99, leaving me with nine pounds to spend in the airport in Accessorize, perhaps on one or two REASONABLY PRICED VESTS.What could possibly be Chinti and Ripoff's justification for charging this surely record-beating price? Is the vest woven from platinum by winged, singing elves under the light of the August moon? Does it guarantee weight-loss for every wearer? Are they offering a 'Buy one, get 40 free?' plan? A complimentary Johnny Depp with each purchase? No. It is organic. Which is good and everything, but... That appears to be it.
The website says: "Our Button Through Vest [NB capitalisation to lend it an air of sounding like this is special and/or exciting] [NB also that I initially fell for that] is made from 100% organic cotton rib. This garment is longer in length with a relaxed fit and [wait for it] has NUT BUTTONS [author's capitals] which are environmentally friendly. The fabric is the ultimate in soft cotton. Great as a standalone and layering piece." Piece. Standalone. FFS. And nut buttons! I ask you. I will accept that, conceptually, they do sound quite sweet - as though they have been handmade by a team of squirrels - but really. Am I meant to start getting paranoid about the fact that my buttons, my normal, plastic buttons, are ecologically unsound? Because if Chinti and Bellend really think that that is how I should be spending my time, then they can take their nut buttons and shove them.
Fifty four ninety five.
Wednesday, 17 February 2010
Talking shop
God I love clothes. I know, I know, appearances can be deceiving, beauty is only skin deep, it's not what's on the outside that matters yadda yadda. But let's face it, all those yawnsome platitudes were just made up so that mothers would have something to say to their fat teenage daughters. The truth is, we are judged on our appearance, and we judge others on theirs - and we make those judgements because, nine times out of ten, they're accurate. If we were consistently wrong, we'd soon learn, and adjust our prejudices accordingly.
Looks matter. Maybe they shouldn't, but they do. Last night I went to Westfield and watched a selection of the most boringly, uniformly dressed teenage girls traipse around Topshop and H&M, buying armfuls of clothes that looked identical to the ones that they were already wearing. There is a scene in the film Clueless where Cher is walking along the corridor talking to Dionne on her mobile phone, and after about ten seconds, Dionne joins her, walking in the same direction, and they hang up without drawing breath, and I remember watching that, slack-jawed, in the nineties, thinking how fun it looked to be that connected, that technologically savvy. Yesterday in Westfield, the teenagers didn't even appear to hang up when they were together. It's as though mobile phones are a cooler way of communicating than actual face-to-face, so they just never hang up. The benefit for the outsider is that they talk much more loudly into their phones than they would to each other, so the full inanity of their babble is revealed. And I suddenly realised that the horror of having children isn't the sleepless nights or the terrible twos, or the toddler tantrums or panicking about primary schools. It's the fact that, without fail, every single teenager in the world is an Absolute, Unmitigating Dick. I definitely was. How do parents humour these morons, who can't speak without splattering their sentences with 'like' and 'y'know', and who couldn't formulate an interesting or unusual phrase if you offered them VIP passes to Glastonbury, unsupervised? I can't imagine not killing them. Matricide beckons. And that's when pregnancy's still a far-off semi-thought. God I hope I never need to adopt - the agency would have a field day. For their reference: that was a joke. I promise I will never murder my children, adopted or otherwise. Although that whole euthanasia thing is interesting, with that BBC presenter killing his lover back in the day. I'm with The Graun on that one - it's all well and good supporting Right To Die etc., but not helpful doing it without proper legal strictures in place.
Aaaaaaaaaanyway. So then I stood, jaw still slack, outside Abercrombie, where there was a cordoned-off queue and a doorman, operating a one-in-one-out policy. I assumed there must be some sort of special event on. But no. These people were queuing to get into the shop. That's it. Queuing to shop. Even for a born consumer such as myself, this was shocking, and I felt a sudden urge to get all revolutionary on their asses, knock down the barricade and drag them all into M&S shouting 'There are ALTERNATIVES! And in other shops, the sizing isn't so OUTRAGEOUS that a NORMAL PERSON has to wear an XXXL!' But I didn't.
Then I went to dinner at Grania's for seriously delicious chicken stew and buttery cabbage and then pancakes, and the clothes discussion continued. I think I slightly freaked out this guy called Jim with the extent of my self-imposed rules for shopping, in that, when considering a new purchase, I will break down the item's price by estimated number of times it will be worn, and thus calculate if it's worth it. For example, I find a new belt that costs £15. I decide I will wear it approximately ten times in the next year. Thus I will be paying £1.50 a time to wear it. For £1.50, I would hope the belt would add a fair bit of value to my outfit - it wouldn't have to be the feature piece, but it certainly couldn't go unnoticed. If I decide that £1.50 is a fair price for each of the belt's outings, I will buy it. Jim's rules were different, as he doesn't buy clothes unless he has run out of something, which is a concept of purchasing that is laughably distant for me. Running out of anything... Nope. Not going to happen. Possibly tights, but that's it. I explained that my tenuous defence for my clothes addiction comes from the fact that, in my early twenties, I was really quite overweight, and the novelty of being able to fit into something, let alone actually look good, is still so fresh that whenever I try something and like it, a panic overwhelms me and I worry that, if I don't buy this garment, right here, right now, I'll regret it forever. Admittedly, I have been fitting in to high street stores for several years now, and I'll be the first to agree that argument doesn't quite stand up any longer, but it's my story and I'm sticking to it.
God I'm hungover. Can you tell? I can't seem to shut up, and nothing I write is of any real interest. Ukulele tonight. Hair of the dog may be necessary.
Looks matter. Maybe they shouldn't, but they do. Last night I went to Westfield and watched a selection of the most boringly, uniformly dressed teenage girls traipse around Topshop and H&M, buying armfuls of clothes that looked identical to the ones that they were already wearing. There is a scene in the film Clueless where Cher is walking along the corridor talking to Dionne on her mobile phone, and after about ten seconds, Dionne joins her, walking in the same direction, and they hang up without drawing breath, and I remember watching that, slack-jawed, in the nineties, thinking how fun it looked to be that connected, that technologically savvy. Yesterday in Westfield, the teenagers didn't even appear to hang up when they were together. It's as though mobile phones are a cooler way of communicating than actual face-to-face, so they just never hang up. The benefit for the outsider is that they talk much more loudly into their phones than they would to each other, so the full inanity of their babble is revealed. And I suddenly realised that the horror of having children isn't the sleepless nights or the terrible twos, or the toddler tantrums or panicking about primary schools. It's the fact that, without fail, every single teenager in the world is an Absolute, Unmitigating Dick. I definitely was. How do parents humour these morons, who can't speak without splattering their sentences with 'like' and 'y'know', and who couldn't formulate an interesting or unusual phrase if you offered them VIP passes to Glastonbury, unsupervised? I can't imagine not killing them. Matricide beckons. And that's when pregnancy's still a far-off semi-thought. God I hope I never need to adopt - the agency would have a field day. For their reference: that was a joke. I promise I will never murder my children, adopted or otherwise. Although that whole euthanasia thing is interesting, with that BBC presenter killing his lover back in the day. I'm with The Graun on that one - it's all well and good supporting Right To Die etc., but not helpful doing it without proper legal strictures in place.
Aaaaaaaaaanyway. So then I stood, jaw still slack, outside Abercrombie, where there was a cordoned-off queue and a doorman, operating a one-in-one-out policy. I assumed there must be some sort of special event on. But no. These people were queuing to get into the shop. That's it. Queuing to shop. Even for a born consumer such as myself, this was shocking, and I felt a sudden urge to get all revolutionary on their asses, knock down the barricade and drag them all into M&S shouting 'There are ALTERNATIVES! And in other shops, the sizing isn't so OUTRAGEOUS that a NORMAL PERSON has to wear an XXXL!' But I didn't.
Then I went to dinner at Grania's for seriously delicious chicken stew and buttery cabbage and then pancakes, and the clothes discussion continued. I think I slightly freaked out this guy called Jim with the extent of my self-imposed rules for shopping, in that, when considering a new purchase, I will break down the item's price by estimated number of times it will be worn, and thus calculate if it's worth it. For example, I find a new belt that costs £15. I decide I will wear it approximately ten times in the next year. Thus I will be paying £1.50 a time to wear it. For £1.50, I would hope the belt would add a fair bit of value to my outfit - it wouldn't have to be the feature piece, but it certainly couldn't go unnoticed. If I decide that £1.50 is a fair price for each of the belt's outings, I will buy it. Jim's rules were different, as he doesn't buy clothes unless he has run out of something, which is a concept of purchasing that is laughably distant for me. Running out of anything... Nope. Not going to happen. Possibly tights, but that's it. I explained that my tenuous defence for my clothes addiction comes from the fact that, in my early twenties, I was really quite overweight, and the novelty of being able to fit into something, let alone actually look good, is still so fresh that whenever I try something and like it, a panic overwhelms me and I worry that, if I don't buy this garment, right here, right now, I'll regret it forever. Admittedly, I have been fitting in to high street stores for several years now, and I'll be the first to agree that argument doesn't quite stand up any longer, but it's my story and I'm sticking to it.
God I'm hungover. Can you tell? I can't seem to shut up, and nothing I write is of any real interest. Ukulele tonight. Hair of the dog may be necessary.
Tuesday, 19 January 2010
Haiti, Leona and self-absorption. Just another day on LLFF.
A couple of weeks ago, when Islamists were protesting in the town of Wootton Bassett, Newsarse, the brilliant satirical UK news website, posted a headline saying that all over the country, left-wing Guardian readers' heads were exploding because they couldn't find the correct stance on the matter - the conflict between a true commitment to freedom of speech, a desire not to write off all Muslims as violent wannabe bombers and a simultaneous and firm dislike of terrorism put us into a state of mental overdrive, whereupon we blew up. I'm going through a similar situation with cruise liners in Haiti. What's happened over there is utterly devastating, the piles of corpses stacking up outside the morgues is heartbreaking and the thought of such a turbulent country being kicked so conclusively in the nuts when it's already so weak is just mind-shattering. And now we read that hundreds of tourists are being shipped in to a port sixty miles away, where they are free to sunbathe, jetski and relax. The Guardian article points out that the boats and their passengers bring valuable money to the port in this time of urgent need, and one of the commentators rightly says that if there was a huge disaster in London, we wouldn't want tourists to stop going to Brighton. But there is something undeniably gross about holidaying so close to human agony. I know, I know, it's a pointless question of geography - would we give someone a hard time about going ahead with a planned holiday in Marbella while the earthquake is being cleaned up in Haiti? Probably not. So what does it matter if they happen to have booked near the site of a recent natural disaster? But, like sitting down next to a homeless person and tucking in to a Big Mac, it seems more than a little insensitive. The cruise ships justify it by giving 100% of their profits to the rescue efforts. How about giving the profits anyway but diverting the cruise somewhere else? I dunno. I'm only a born again liberal. I don't have the answers. I just feel a bit sick. I gave £100 to the relief effort this morning and my company, in a rare it's-good-to-work-for-a-City-bank moment, will double all its employees' donations. I'm not sure if any of it will get to where it's needed, but I can do nothing else. Please visit Unicef and donate, if you haven't already. I wouldn't normally mention the amount but I thought it might add gravitas. Yuck yuck yuck yuck yuck we're so lucky.
In other news, it appears that Leona Lewis forgot to remind her skivvies to iron her dress before the Golden Globes. Oops. Sure, there's the crushed silk look, I know about that, but what she's wearing isn't it. She looks like she did my usual trick of pulling the garment out of the washing machine, brushing it down firmly while it was still damp and hoping for the best. Instead, the thigh-height creases just draw attention to... the wrong places. Obviously if the girl had even a spectre of a personality I might be more forgiving, but as it is, I feel like I'm poking fun at a waxwork, which is not only fine but to be encouraged.
And finally, I am thrilled to confirm that the anti-biotic stint is working its way to a close. I'm off out tonight with Simon and I'm so excited about my first glass of cold white wine that I could weep. Given that we're seeing The Road first, I'll probably already be inconsolable, either with disappointment that it's not a patch on the book, or with genuine grief, the tears might be less hilarious hyperbole and more actually embarrassing. You'll read it here first.
In other news, it appears that Leona Lewis forgot to remind her skivvies to iron her dress before the Golden Globes. Oops. Sure, there's the crushed silk look, I know about that, but what she's wearing isn't it. She looks like she did my usual trick of pulling the garment out of the washing machine, brushing it down firmly while it was still damp and hoping for the best. Instead, the thigh-height creases just draw attention to... the wrong places. Obviously if the girl had even a spectre of a personality I might be more forgiving, but as it is, I feel like I'm poking fun at a waxwork, which is not only fine but to be encouraged.And finally, I am thrilled to confirm that the anti-biotic stint is working its way to a close. I'm off out tonight with Simon and I'm so excited about my first glass of cold white wine that I could weep. Given that we're seeing The Road first, I'll probably already be inconsolable, either with disappointment that it's not a patch on the book, or with genuine grief, the tears might be less hilarious hyperbole and more actually embarrassing. You'll read it here first.
Wednesday, 16 December 2009
Barbour black sheep
I read this article today about the renaissance of poshness in British society. To nutshellise, it claims that 'normal' people are dressing like posh people by wearing Barbours, which proves that being posh isn't seen as such an awful thing as it used to be. Weirdly, I agree with the conclusion, but not the hypothesis. I do feel that the upper classes, plummy accents and country pursuits are sneered at less now than they were two decades ago, and I concur with the journalist who suggested that this shift has happened because Thatcher seems a long time ago, and the new enemies are bankers and global corporations, not colonial landowners. The toffs aren't the ones ruining the UK any more, so it's OK to like them. I see the logic in this argument, but I think it's bollocks. Ultimately, massive capitalist and corporate greed is more dangerous and damaging than a yearning for some sort of golden era of pre-war clarity where everyone knew their place. But they both suck. And being governed by a pack of Old Etonians might seem reassuringly familiar in this time of uncertainty, but not all that is familiar is good.
And anyway, I don't think the hipsters who are wearing Barbour jackets want to look posh. The people buying them are in their early twenties and have lived under a Labour government for most of their lives - they can't remember why everyone used to hate the upper classes. Even if they have a vague understanding of the concepts of class wars, snobbery and social immobility, they care more about looking different and ironic than politically active. In the nineties, Burberry was subversive for a bit, sported by Kate Moss, but then it filtered down to Oasis and the Appletons and, almost overnight, became a uniform for aspirational working classes. Then it disappeared out of the public eye altogether. Now it's back, the telltale tartan is used discretely if at all, and the brand is quietly unaffordable once again. These things move in entirely predictable waves.
Whatever happens, even if Barbour-wearing becomes compulsory for anyone under 35, this is one bandwagon I won't be joining. In the days of yore, during my bowl-haircut, alabaster-pale, pony-crazed early teen years, before I fell in love with Joey MacIntyre from New Kids On The Block, I had a waxed jacket, and although I concede its waterproofing abilities, I detested its singular smell and the fact that it was uniquely useless at keeping me warm. It was like wearing a dark, condensation-filled army tent, smelling of dogs, discomfort and heart-rending homesickness, and I hated it. The trendy Hoxtonites can sport 'em all they like, but as the snow falls in London, you'll see me snuggled up in my M&S coat and my H&M fake fur bonnet, looking something like a cross between an elf and a panda, and happy as a clam.
And anyway, I don't think the hipsters who are wearing Barbour jackets want to look posh. The people buying them are in their early twenties and have lived under a Labour government for most of their lives - they can't remember why everyone used to hate the upper classes. Even if they have a vague understanding of the concepts of class wars, snobbery and social immobility, they care more about looking different and ironic than politically active. In the nineties, Burberry was subversive for a bit, sported by Kate Moss, but then it filtered down to Oasis and the Appletons and, almost overnight, became a uniform for aspirational working classes. Then it disappeared out of the public eye altogether. Now it's back, the telltale tartan is used discretely if at all, and the brand is quietly unaffordable once again. These things move in entirely predictable waves.
Whatever happens, even if Barbour-wearing becomes compulsory for anyone under 35, this is one bandwagon I won't be joining. In the days of yore, during my bowl-haircut, alabaster-pale, pony-crazed early teen years, before I fell in love with Joey MacIntyre from New Kids On The Block, I had a waxed jacket, and although I concede its waterproofing abilities, I detested its singular smell and the fact that it was uniquely useless at keeping me warm. It was like wearing a dark, condensation-filled army tent, smelling of dogs, discomfort and heart-rending homesickness, and I hated it. The trendy Hoxtonites can sport 'em all they like, but as the snow falls in London, you'll see me snuggled up in my M&S coat and my H&M fake fur bonnet, looking something like a cross between an elf and a panda, and happy as a clam.
Thursday, 15 October 2009
I went to the cinema
I'm still cold and still grumpy, so it is rather fitting that last night I went to see a film called Rage. I've done the stupid thing of reading other people's reviews about it, so I doubt that anything I write here will be particularly original or insightful, but for what it's worth, I really recommend it. The premise is straightforward - a young student is using his mobile phone to video interviews with people in the fashion world. You never see or hear the interviewer - but you see the people he's interviewing in glorious block colour, the heads of Judi Dench, Lily Cole, Jude Law, Eddie Izzard, Steve Buscemi and others filling the screen as they confide (suspiciously quickly) in their young protege. So that's it: one hundred minutes of talking celebrity heads. Along the way, someone gets killed (off screen) and the plot thickens a touch.
The issues covered read like a liberal schoolkid's Things To Discuss list: immigration, hypocrisy in the fashion world, celebrity, the media, power, inequality, gender, sexuality, eating disorders, racial stereotypes, literature, crime, ageing... and while none of the topics is explored in enough detail to be in any way fresh or enlightening, there is weight in numbers, and the overall sense is of someone trying to make a deeply political film who can't decide which messy situation to confront, so ends up sticking them all in the pot. It's a bit of a shame, as any of the messages would have been argued more powerfully had they been more in the spotlight. Consequently, Rage can be cliched at times - the fashion designer, Merlin, was an absurd caricature, and in other gripes, Judi Dench's 10% US accent was 85% distracting, and even she appears to lose the will to maintain it at several points. But what irritated me most was the fact that the characters on screen were replying to questions asked by the interviewer - but you couldn't hear him. If he's meant to be taping the whole thing on a mobile phone, both voices would be clearly audible. A petty issue, but one that continued to grate throughout.
Still, there is no denying that Rage breaks visual and structural barriers. The director flew around the world to shoot each actor individually over two days, and the HD results look fantastic, even if the scenes on their own aren't ground-breaking in content. The script was excellent in places, as are the introductions to each segment, where the student appears to type out, in real time, what we're about to witness: his self-edits are pleasantly revealing. And, of course, there's Jude Law, who was annoyingly brilliant as a beautiful Russian cross-dresser called Minx. Like Dame Judi, he was distracting - but for different reasons. I tried to memorise his incredible eye make-up for my own future reference but I don't think I'll ever be as beautiful as he was. Sigh.
Anyway, this isn't Time Out, you'll make up your own minds - but if you're interested, it's on at the BFI at the mo. Get your asses down there. Or don't. Makes no odds to me what you do with your life. Wasters, the lot of you. I'm off to get some Minstrels.
The issues covered read like a liberal schoolkid's Things To Discuss list: immigration, hypocrisy in the fashion world, celebrity, the media, power, inequality, gender, sexuality, eating disorders, racial stereotypes, literature, crime, ageing... and while none of the topics is explored in enough detail to be in any way fresh or enlightening, there is weight in numbers, and the overall sense is of someone trying to make a deeply political film who can't decide which messy situation to confront, so ends up sticking them all in the pot. It's a bit of a shame, as any of the messages would have been argued more powerfully had they been more in the spotlight. Consequently, Rage can be cliched at times - the fashion designer, Merlin, was an absurd caricature, and in other gripes, Judi Dench's 10% US accent was 85% distracting, and even she appears to lose the will to maintain it at several points. But what irritated me most was the fact that the characters on screen were replying to questions asked by the interviewer - but you couldn't hear him. If he's meant to be taping the whole thing on a mobile phone, both voices would be clearly audible. A petty issue, but one that continued to grate throughout.
Still, there is no denying that Rage breaks visual and structural barriers. The director flew around the world to shoot each actor individually over two days, and the HD results look fantastic, even if the scenes on their own aren't ground-breaking in content. The script was excellent in places, as are the introductions to each segment, where the student appears to type out, in real time, what we're about to witness: his self-edits are pleasantly revealing. And, of course, there's Jude Law, who was annoyingly brilliant as a beautiful Russian cross-dresser called Minx. Like Dame Judi, he was distracting - but for different reasons. I tried to memorise his incredible eye make-up for my own future reference but I don't think I'll ever be as beautiful as he was. Sigh.
Anyway, this isn't Time Out, you'll make up your own minds - but if you're interested, it's on at the BFI at the mo. Get your asses down there. Or don't. Makes no odds to me what you do with your life. Wasters, the lot of you. I'm off to get some Minstrels.
Tuesday, 15 September 2009
Today is crap
1. It is pouring with rain.
2. I am ill with a sore throat and aching limbs.
3. Patrick Swayze is dead.
4. I have just dropped a buttered, Marmited corn thin, Marmite side down on my cashmere jumper. This is the cashmere jumper I wear when I'm ill. I can't take it off or I will get a lot iller. So now I smell of ill person and Marmite. FFS.
Saturday was really fun. I went for dinner with my friend Eva and then walked some of the way home, from Holland Park to Marble Arch, where I caught the bus. When I'd left my house at about 5pm that afternoon, I'd looked pretty cool - I was wearing a new spangly cardigan, my eye make-up was excellent and my hair looked slept-in. And, several hours later, as I walked past all the patriotic tourists who'd been watching the Last Night of the Proms in Hyde Park, I was filled with a sense of worldlove and contentment, and I beamed happily at many of my fellow flaneurs as I strolled towards London's heart, while listening to music by Lambchop, Crosby, Stills & Nash, DeVotchka and Quiet Village.
Then I got home and looked in the mirror.
My eyeliner hadn't just disappeared, it had sunk about two inches, increasing the depth and intensity of my bags and nestling into my crows' feet so as to define them with greater precision for the partially sighted. My hair, previously fluffy and full of joie-de-vivre, was now lank and clinging to my perspiring forehead following my walk. And, as the crowning glory, I beamed into the mirror as I had done at so many passers-by, and found a peppercorn the size of a grapefruit lodged between my left front tooth and the neighbouring incisor. My mental image of myself as an attractive, healthy thirty-something, humming along to her walkman as she smiles at strangers had to be updated quickly to a sectionable, sweating mentalist. Far from an advertisement for happy independence, in retrospect, it was a miracle I wasn't arrested.
On Sunday I saw two films. One was absolutely brilliant: The September Issue - not so much a triumph of skilled film-making as one of those cases where the subject matter is so extraordinary and fascinating that almost anyone could have held up a mobile phone camera and made a similarly gripping and eye-opening movie. I wished it could have lasted several days. Then I came home and watched The Family Stone, a film I was recommended by a friend who shall remain nameless to spare her any humiliation. It was absolutely the worst film I have seen in some months, derivative, embarrassing to watch, patronising and as subtle as a kick in the storecupboard. Take the opening scene, where a gay couple arrive at the home of one of their parents for Christmas, and are seen unpacking bags of beautifully wrapped gifts from their expensive car. So far, so PC. But one of the pair is black, while the other is white. Sigh. And - why not go the whole hog? - the white one is deaf. Actually deaf. I laughed out loud. Anyway. The mother, we discover, has breast cancer and is soon to die. Of course. So I was ironing away, scoffing at the increasingly absurd and irritating plotline where another (straight) son falls in love with his girlfriend's sister, but it's all OK, because his brother fancies the girlfriend, even though her character is genuinely less sympathetic than Hannibal Lecter, and later the bus drives away but then the brakes come on and he sprints to catch up with it and she gets out and asks if he has plans for New Year and I am trying not to be sick, but in the middle of it all, there is a scene where the dying mother is looking out of the window at the snow falling and you know that she is thinking, 'This might be the last time I see snow falling,' and in spite of myself I welled up, suddenly struck by the thought that, shit, this might be the last time I watch a movie, or iron a pillowcase, or get into clean sheets at night. I try to appreciate how lucky I am, but sometimes I forget to appreciate the normal things. I shouldn't have to be dying or confronted with death to appreciate living. So, for the record, I'm truly glad that today is crap, and I am grateful to have a sore throat and to be breathing in and out. And I'm happy that I'm seated here on my sofa, wearing one slipper and smelling strongly of Marmite. Yes.
2. I am ill with a sore throat and aching limbs.
3. Patrick Swayze is dead.
4. I have just dropped a buttered, Marmited corn thin, Marmite side down on my cashmere jumper. This is the cashmere jumper I wear when I'm ill. I can't take it off or I will get a lot iller. So now I smell of ill person and Marmite. FFS.
Saturday was really fun. I went for dinner with my friend Eva and then walked some of the way home, from Holland Park to Marble Arch, where I caught the bus. When I'd left my house at about 5pm that afternoon, I'd looked pretty cool - I was wearing a new spangly cardigan, my eye make-up was excellent and my hair looked slept-in. And, several hours later, as I walked past all the patriotic tourists who'd been watching the Last Night of the Proms in Hyde Park, I was filled with a sense of worldlove and contentment, and I beamed happily at many of my fellow flaneurs as I strolled towards London's heart, while listening to music by Lambchop, Crosby, Stills & Nash, DeVotchka and Quiet Village.
Then I got home and looked in the mirror.
My eyeliner hadn't just disappeared, it had sunk about two inches, increasing the depth and intensity of my bags and nestling into my crows' feet so as to define them with greater precision for the partially sighted. My hair, previously fluffy and full of joie-de-vivre, was now lank and clinging to my perspiring forehead following my walk. And, as the crowning glory, I beamed into the mirror as I had done at so many passers-by, and found a peppercorn the size of a grapefruit lodged between my left front tooth and the neighbouring incisor. My mental image of myself as an attractive, healthy thirty-something, humming along to her walkman as she smiles at strangers had to be updated quickly to a sectionable, sweating mentalist. Far from an advertisement for happy independence, in retrospect, it was a miracle I wasn't arrested.
On Sunday I saw two films. One was absolutely brilliant: The September Issue - not so much a triumph of skilled film-making as one of those cases where the subject matter is so extraordinary and fascinating that almost anyone could have held up a mobile phone camera and made a similarly gripping and eye-opening movie. I wished it could have lasted several days. Then I came home and watched The Family Stone, a film I was recommended by a friend who shall remain nameless to spare her any humiliation. It was absolutely the worst film I have seen in some months, derivative, embarrassing to watch, patronising and as subtle as a kick in the storecupboard. Take the opening scene, where a gay couple arrive at the home of one of their parents for Christmas, and are seen unpacking bags of beautifully wrapped gifts from their expensive car. So far, so PC. But one of the pair is black, while the other is white. Sigh. And - why not go the whole hog? - the white one is deaf. Actually deaf. I laughed out loud. Anyway. The mother, we discover, has breast cancer and is soon to die. Of course. So I was ironing away, scoffing at the increasingly absurd and irritating plotline where another (straight) son falls in love with his girlfriend's sister, but it's all OK, because his brother fancies the girlfriend, even though her character is genuinely less sympathetic than Hannibal Lecter, and later the bus drives away but then the brakes come on and he sprints to catch up with it and she gets out and asks if he has plans for New Year and I am trying not to be sick, but in the middle of it all, there is a scene where the dying mother is looking out of the window at the snow falling and you know that she is thinking, 'This might be the last time I see snow falling,' and in spite of myself I welled up, suddenly struck by the thought that, shit, this might be the last time I watch a movie, or iron a pillowcase, or get into clean sheets at night. I try to appreciate how lucky I am, but sometimes I forget to appreciate the normal things. I shouldn't have to be dying or confronted with death to appreciate living. So, for the record, I'm truly glad that today is crap, and I am grateful to have a sore throat and to be breathing in and out. And I'm happy that I'm seated here on my sofa, wearing one slipper and smelling strongly of Marmite. Yes.
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