Thursday, 23 December 2010

Vince

Yesterday all the news channels were bleating on about that Vince Cable thing - especially Sky, because it was about them, how exciting. I'm not going to comment at all on the way that the whole thing has been blown out of proportion and that when you think about it he didn't really do anything at all, and that the press has hungrily made a huge deal about the fact that he said 'declare war,' practically shouting it repeatedly at the camera. I'm just going to draw your attention to that recording they played continuously. The best bit about the whole thing is when he mentions the thing about 'declaring war,' and the female reporter spy laughs. I can practically hear the disbelieving and selfish glee behind that laugh. Imagine what she would have been thinking when she realised the massive evil plot she had revealed - causing her to laugh just slightly too much for the fairly average 'funny' comment he made. That laugh completely embodies the thirst and greed for stories that I think reporters have. It is funny and desperate.

Tuesday, 21 December 2010

Prewarning

I've just realised that seconds are too long. I have realised this because whenever anyone attempts to count seconds, they go too quickly. Whoever invented seconds was obviously too laid back, thick, or had an unnaturally slow heartbeat. I propose that we speed seconds up slightly. Minutes and hours will remain unaffected.
I might be getting one of those poncy digital SLR cameras, most probably Canon. So I am issuing a formal warning: it is highly likely that, if said camera comes about, there will be a barrage of sub-standard amateur photos (with extremely high contrast) of profound raindrops on leaves, wilting flowers, and ugly industrial buildings. I might even stoop so low as to take one of those hipster/indie photos in vile mismatched vintage clothes. Upside down. In a mirror. With inturned knees and hunched shoulders. I will endeavour to make this a complete parody, but there will be an inevitable underlying element of self consciousness, desperation, and extreme vanity.

Monday, 6 December 2010

Extensive efforts bring slight elevation of the disappointment


We have found a way to lessen the ugliness of our Christmas tree. By hacking off large proportions of its mass, draping it with forty different colours of tinsel and shining a high powered tungsten filament lamp directly at the tree for the duration of its stay, it we can lift it into the realms of mildly disgusting rather than heart-breakingly repugnant. This was helped by an envy-fuelled rampage of tidying my mother carried out* after visiting someone else's compulsively tidy house.
*Was not successful in finding a cool way of saying mother. I considered 'mum,' 'mummy,' 'maid,' 'parent' and was very close to 'female parent.'

Saturday, 4 December 2010

Christmas tree brings sickening disappoinment

I just decorated the Christmas tree. After an hour of intense work I stood back to behold a miserable drooping creature, the vivid and sparkling baubles disappearing into an overpowering mass of disappointing green. Sequinned owls, glittery pine cones, glass spheres, droplets of diamond, gold parcels, and vile red stars from Matalan which I put round the back - all absorbed by its fat pervading branches. What I especially dislike about our 6 foot bush is the way it is wonderfully corpulent at the bottom, but tapers into disheartening sparseness above the halfway mark. Like an anorexic with a beer belly. My mum asked for a 4 foot tree but I decided 6 foot was closer to 4 foot than 4 foot. The excess 2 feet are an ugly branchless peak, like some skeletal finger that I will probably cut off eventually.
The highlight of the Christmas tree process was undoubtedly the net machine. At B&Q a man took our Christmas tree from us, and while we looked on in protective and loving concern, he passed it through some sort of cement mixture with a net at one end. When the Christmas tree came out the other side, it had a net on. It was magical. Elated, we wiped tears of bliss from our eyes and took our tree back into our trolley, stroking its belly. Unsatisfied with a mere pot, we also bought a chavvy gold stand which I detest even more than the tree.

Monday, 29 November 2010

Tuesday, 23 November 2010

It suddenly occured to me that although I live in Portsmouth, I have no idea of how to get anywhere within it. Fratton, North End, Southsea and the rest are a series of separate orbs in which I find myself occasionally, with no idea of how they relate to eachother. It is extremely unsettling that, were I to suddenly need to travel to Paulsgrove, I simply wouldn't have the capacity.
Dull news everyone! Kate Middleton and Prince William are getting married! A week or so after it was announced and vapid little newsflashes about it are still occupying prime BBC News positions. Apparently people care that the date has been set - it's April 29th, by the way. How interesting: I have just been informed by the Daily Mail that courtiers would have particularly liked a summer date due to fears of inclement weather, yet Kate and Prince have insisted on spring - that fiesty pair! Even my trusty Guardian reports the same story.
Also in the news is some trivial crap a boy who was raised a girl, something about the Pope and condoms, some inconsequential chatter about a Korean artillery clash - but KATE MIDDLETON AND PRINCE WILLIAM ARE GETTING MARRIED!
There was a comment recently about the word pulchritudinous, featured in my last post. After being told it could only be used to describe literature, I decided to investigate. I have scoured the whole internet, even the likes of Yahoo Answers and Wikianswers (depressing glimpses into our deserted post-apocalyptic future), and found no sign that this is true. In fact, the centre of all knowledge, commonly referred to as Dictionary.com, defined it as 'formal , literary or physical beauty.' It is a sign of our internet dominated world that my last step was to pick up some dictionary we seem to have in our house. It simply defined 'pulchritude' as beauty - no mention that it was literature specific. It is derived from the Latin 'pulcher' for beauty, and I only say this to make myself look more intelligent. So unless some pathetic 'english scholars' have recently decided by some strange etymological loophole that pulchritudinous can only be used to describe literature, then this is simply not true.

Tuesday, 9 November 2010

Stunningly pulchritudinous

We're in dire need of a new superlative. 'Fabulous' was abolished long ago, in the 90s or some decade equally horrible. Now it inhabits only the conversation of homosexuals, or other extreme stereotypes in the fashion industry. There was a grotesque period in which 'stunning' was used. Using 'Bebo' as its vehicle, it went from mainly frequenting the vocabulary of chavs to penetrating like a vile poison into the mouths of ordinary people. It also produced the lovely derivative 'stunnah,' which was an important accolade for any self conscious and vanity plagued pre-teenager. Often used to make ugly people feel better about the disgusting picture of them posing into a tiny bathroom mirror - the flash of their camera obscuring everything except some beady eyes and fat rolls - it was probably the most fraudulently used noun there has ever been.
At the moment the latest successor is 'amazing.' The nice 'A' vowel allows the second syllable to be drawn out as long as necessary, depending on how obnoxious and intolerable one happens to be. 'Amazing' is incredibly flexible: it can be used to describe a personal appearance, a piece of written work, an item of clothing, a recently watched film, an experience, and about 64 other things. I have a feeling, though, that its reign is coming to an end: you can practically hear people's crushing inward misery when they have stooped low enough to use it. Without a doubt, 'amazing's' fate was sealed after it appeared in that sickeningly awful Bruno Mars song.
This of course means that society needs a new superlative: a new word that seems to top all the others before it. A new word that can convey just how happy and warm you feel about something. A new word that we can vomit out in desperation when all other vocabulary has failed us.
We could play it safe with 'wonderful,' 'brilliant,' and 'fantastic.' Perhaps go retro with 'stupendous,' 'peachy,' and 'terrific.' But I think we are ready to reach the highs of 'tremendous,' 'magnificent' and 'wondrous.' Maybe even 'walloping.'
The best idea would be to have a different superlative for each situation. When complimenting a picture, use 'sensational.' For comically ugly pictures, try 'pulchritudinous,' because although it means beautiful it's one of the ugliest words available to you. A particularly memorable party can be 'laudable' and someone's shit poem can be 'transcendant.'

Tuesday, 2 November 2010

Why Jane Austen is shit

Her sentences last a paragraph each and her story lines are incredibly predictable. Yet we can't stop dribbling on about her brilliance and seem to be compulsively awarding her accolades.
Bit of meta-reporting here: 'Professor Kathryn Sutherland of Oxford University' studied shedloads of original handwritten pages of Jane Austen and decided that her critically acclaimed 'perfect style' was the work of her editor. Who, unfortunately for feminists, was a male.
This of course brings me to a couple of conclusions.
a) If she is 'widely regarded as a supreme stylist' and 'a writer of perfectly polished sentences,' as the BBC article I'm reading states, then everyone in the world is wrong except me. I become extremely confused when I'm halfway through Northanger Abbey and still on the first sentence. How can a good writer be one that creates the necessity for one to read the same sentence 4 times to make sense of it? In fact, I am going to continue this post in true Jane Austen style.
b) Rather due to the fact, which may indeed actually excite the feminists, that Jane Austen's style is due to her male editor, then, we can be assured that her own particular style may not have been so inclined to puzzle: perhaps she is a good writer after all, so I should not criticise her good name; the article reports that in fact her original handwritten scripts had a more finely crafted dialogue, in which case I feel she has been hugely misrepresented for all these years, and I only wish I had read the handwritten version of Pride and Prejudice, rather than killing my brain trying to tackle the edited cryptic one.
c) Despite this, it pains me to say, nothing can change the unfortunate simplistic and predictable story lines that Miss Austen employs.

Sunday, 31 October 2010

People were cooler in the 80s

I have spent this whole decade laughing contemptuously at their hairstyles and ugly clothes, from the vantage point of my supposedly superior, snobby generation. Then I spent the whole of Halloween watching music videos from the 80s, and realised that (with the exception of Bon Jovi probably) I was wrong. They were simply effortlessly cooler than all of the laughable current 'stars.' For example:
Blondie
The pretty one from The Bangles
Madonna...
They just seem so, er, 'rockstar,' not trying to sound too gimpy. Compared to today, they seem more scruffy, indifferent. In other words, not this:
Or this, ugh.
They are completely manufactured and reek of desperation. All style and no genuine 'coolness.'

Sunday, 17 October 2010

I just ate some Urban Outfitters

I say that because if I don't order clothes every once in a while I die of boredom, especially on Sundays. I fulfilled my need for an ironic t-shirt and got one with a leopard print crucifix. Urban Outfitters makes me very happy.
I feel like a complete toddler because I just made some invitations for my party, using a Cath Kidston set which includes envelopes and stickers. Sadly it's only a 15 piece set and I'm inviting 16, so one hard-done-by person is going to have a nice Microsoft Word document with some good old Wordart and Comic Sans. Oh and I nearly forgot Clipart.
Personally I think Wordart, Comic Sans and Clipart should all die slowly and painfully, perhaps with a nice sadistic combination of burning alive and the old bamboo shoots torture. They are unwanted remnants from the age in which computers were still being breastfed, back when ten-year-olds used them to make shit little posters about minibeasts. Anyone who still uses Wordart, Comic Sans or Clipart is a complete idiot, ignorant to their new-fangled successors: Google Images and a nice bit of size 150 Cambria font, aligned bottom-right. This is edgy.
I don't know why I'm endorsing MS Word actually. It's bollocks. Everytime I add in a new text box or something I have to pray that it won't screw up everything else on the page, pushing every object into some unknown twisted realm. And if use text boxes rather than writing normal text, it refuses to go onto a new page when I run out of space. So I have to insert a new page, which for some reason appears before the first page. And when I'm trying to position two linked text boxes next to each other, the inflexible movement facilities don't allow a natural looking progression of text, but instead an infuriating gap. Maybe the general problem here is with the text boxes.
I love free internet stuff. Google Docs is a simple yet WORKING word processor that doesn't try and correct your grammar like a little bitch. Again acting like a toddler, I used it to make a party information sheet and found it most pleasing.

Friday, 15 October 2010

I've just got GHDs. So now I become one of those people that boasts about the superiority of GHDs to kid themselves into thinking they were worth £100. I've got a good 2 years left until they dutifully break, so I'll use them well and inflict 7 years of damage onto my hair.
The GHD 'Creation Spray' that I bought with the straighteners will not, however, escape criticism. It claimed to be able to hold your style better so I read the reviews which somehow made me believe it was something other than just hairspray.
It is in fact proactively worse than hairspray, and the only perceivable result is more of a delightful burning smell than before. I have thus concluded that any advice or information you will ever receive from anyone is born out of ulterior selfish motives and noone's opinion can be trusted.

Wednesday, 6 October 2010

Jesus T-shirt

I've decided that I am in dire need of an ironic t-shirt. I already have horse top which works quite effectively to give the wrong impression about my character, but I'm thinking of a t-shirt with a big crucifix on it. There a quite a few other entertaining options:
Recycling symbol
Bunnies/kittens/puppies/teddies
Bible quote
Justin Bieber/Hannah Montana
Anything related to being a vegetarian
Massive pair of Crocs
Jay Z/Kanye West
It would mean I had to restrict my company to people that know me, to achieve ultimate hilarity and avoid coming across as a complete fool.

Thursday, 30 September 2010

The hidden ill intentions of children's TV

          I've just been watching a television programme in which a number of fairly likeable characters encounter and overcome minor problems whilst also teaching exercise. They live communually in quite sophisticated and modern accomodation, and the general theme of each episode is that they reach a sort of Nirvana at the end. It's called 'Waybuloo' and it's on Cbeebies. It's also the root of all the country's drug problems, FACT*. How can the creators sit there knowing that they are educating toddlers on the experience and merits of intoxicating substances? I practically feel sick just watching the 'Piplings' float whimsically in the sky, laughing sweetly as they ascend to their drug induced heaven. I'm surprised that all the nation's four year olds haven't already assembled an underground toddler mafia, trading cannabis and other illegal substances.
        I can't help feeling a sense of loyalty to 'In the Night Garden' that prevents me from approving at all of Waybuloo. Although they only seemed to make about four episodes, repeating them hourly, I was practically as captivated as my little sister. The characters comprised of an obsessive compulsive lonely hermit with a fondness for rocks, a group of colossal inflatable toys that just wibbled about happily, and a huge family of small wooden people (probably on benefits), along with their elusive neighbours. Combine this with the lovely little names like 'Iggle Piggle,' 'Haa Hoo' and 'Makka Pakka' and you potentially have something so cute that it is dangerous. 

*Turns out there's no need for reasoning or logic anymore; simply stating FACT after any assertion renders it immediately true. 

Sunday, 26 September 2010

bloody fat people.

My new school blouses arrived today. As this is a highly exciting occasion, I gave them the opening ceremony they deserved - invited the whole extended family round, got some caterers, some good music, candles. Then I opened the pretty white parcel and extracted the blouses. They were folded like origami round a cardboard frame, so with shaking hands I peeled them off and prepared to unravel the blouses into their true vomity pink glory.
Unfortunately it turned out that they were hugely massive. All my relatives went home; some shouting abuse, some resorting to actual violence, some just contemplating suicide. And I sat and pondered these blouses. Why were they wider than they were long? In what way were they supposed to fit any normal human figure? Then I realised I was simply a victim of size inflation. Size inflation, for those that don't know, is the enlarging of clothes while their size labels remain the same. So a chest size 34 might have fitted someone of my size five years ago, but it won't anymore. In other words, the clothing companies are being too nice to fat people. The makers of my blouse feared that they would have complaining fat people phoning up when they couldn't button the blouse around their huge neck. So to avoid this problem, they simple doubled the amount of material used, producing a tent-like structure that, sadly, seems to fit most of the fat people in this country. 

I feel that by inflicting such brutal insults on fat people is kind and generous. If it motivates them into losing weight then I have done a fellow human's duty of protecting your peers. Being fat - and I mean clinically fat, not just chubby - is dangerous and unhealthy and it pains me when vast women boast 'curves' when actually they are just pushing it.
Something strange and terrifying has happened to me. For the first time in years, I seem to have experienced sympathy for an animal. The owners of a dog drove it out into the countryside, took it outside the car, then quickly sped off and left it there. It tried to catch up but it couldn't, because it had a limp. I practically sobbed and bought a dog in a random act of animal love.

Thursday, 23 September 2010

POPEMOBILE and wooly coat overdrive

The popemobile is just a glorified bulletproof wheelchair. Or some sort of OAP go-kart. I'm glad that the pope decided to be old in order to make his preferred mode of transport even funnier. 
Totally uncharacteristically, I went on the Topshop website. I had a look at their Unique collection, and while I do think the clothes are reasonably ugly, I was blown away by their sheer decadence. It's like they've taken an unassuming country ranch in, er, Russia, and completely pimped it up so that I practically got a nosebleed just looking at these clothes. And although that sentence did not make sense I feel it suitably portrayed my mixed feelings for this collection.
In fact, just as I'm writing this I've realised that I love it. They actually have an antler hairband - tremendously unsubtle but lovely. And for some reason I can excuse the fact that it's £80. If I had a lot of money to waste on crap I would buy it. There are also some hiking boots on steroids, and some furry coats that, if anything, look too hot. I could probably cook a steak in those coats. Put simply, this collection is what Lady Gaga would wear in Moscow, or somewhere else cold, to put my lack of geography skills in the spotlight.

HOW BLOODY WARM DOES IT LOOK?

Thursday, 2 September 2010

Just been through the old gem of a routine that is hastily deleting old posts you didn't realise were there. They consisted of the pathetic and embarrassing subjects of my christmas list, some neuroticism about my party, and openly slagging off my friends.
Right so my last few days of Brighton included crawling around the floor of TK Maxx. Yes, I have stooped that low in search of a school bag. But that was nothing compared to the documentary I watched today.
It's called 'Enemies of reason' or something and it has that angry man Richard Dawkins in it. It's about 'alternative healing methods' and 'chakras' and maybe fairies and goblins, why not. It was both hilarious and disgusting. Hilarious when some woman waved her hands at Richard Dawkins and declared he now had his fourth chromosome triangle. And laughed. As if she knew it was a load of bollucks, and was laughing gleefully at the way she had conned thousands out of people. That particular scene wasn't worth any contempt: too pathetic. But then it moved onto a section about homeopathic medicine. Before, I didn't know anything about homeopathy, but had a vague notion that it was some treehugger 'medicine' shit. Now I feel like I've had my eyes opened onto something horrific and terrible. It's even worse then when I watched the X Factor.
Homeopathy works like this: something that causes similar symptoms to the ones you are suffering will cure your illness. So red onion would cure watery eyes. It also states that the more diluted a remedy is, the better it works. And the little bottled remedies you might buy if you are a gullible twat, shunning proven scientific medicines that actual intelligent people created, are so diluted that they are actually water. The NHS has a homeopathy department. They spent 12 million on making these magic little bottles of water, or sugar pills if you're lucky. 12 million they could have spent on something useful. If you're not angry about this then you are an unfeeling evil gnome faith healer.

Tuesday, 24 August 2010

Big hate for X Factor

I was in a particularly cynical mood the other day; and thats the original meaning of the word, not the football meaning. So the new series of X Factor was probably the wrong thing to watch. Five minutes in, and I had lost faith in humankind and was feeling like a patronised baboon enjoying some nice disco lights. Speaking of which, today I saw a gorilla pick its nose and eat it and I was far more entertained. Every so often it cuts to the queues outside and we see some hideous wobbly specimens bouncing around flashing their 3 braincells in our faces. Proud of their failure at everything. It is, obviously, worse when said embarrasments start to sing. Well it should be, but they used 'vocal enhancement processes,' so it just sounds faintly robotic instead. Infuriating! They used it on one member of a duet to demonstrate the difference in singing ability between them - one's a dog, one's mediocre - so that they could play the 'maybe you should audition alone' card. Everything about X Factor is false. I'm starting to think that the judges are simulations. Simon Cowell doesn't exist. The only real element is Dermot O'Leary, who's actually just standing in a studio talking to a green screen the whole time.
I was well chuffed with my New Look boots. I thought I was being all mature and shit. I wore them in Brighton for a day and now I hate them. My toes nearly bled. I was considering taking them back, but apparently you're not allowed once you've worn them out; and unfortunately I can't disguise that fact what with shitty New Look quality.

Thursday, 19 August 2010

I feel considerably lighter

So once again I've failed as a quirky Brighton vintage shopper and bought an eye shadow trio from Mac. It wasn't my fault, though - I am a victim of high pressure sales. Once I'm in the position where they're looking at me expectantly, having just applied seven different eye shadows to my face, I simply have to buy something; even if it's a £15 little pot that made me feel considerably lighter and slightly dazed as I left the shop.
American Apparel may be going bust! That's because it's overpriced and largely average, except for the few mildly pornographic things (Nylon Spandex Stretch Lace Diamond Grid Bodysuit). And it's too bloody hipster to be taken seriously. There's one in Brighton actually, which I went in for two minutes today. Most of it was tragically underwhelming, and when I found myself halfway to liking something it turned out to be six times what I would be willing to pay. I think American Apparel was probably popular a few years ago. But there are only so many spandex bodysuits, lace trousers and invisible one pieces they can cram into the confused population of 15-25-year-olds.
I have successfully purchased some Ugly Boots. New Look, also in Brighton, £35. I don't actually know how to do the laces, so I feel like a 5 year old all over again. I had an unfortunate moment of suicide contemplation when I discovered I'd left my £5 voucher at home.

Thursday, 12 August 2010

Ugly boots

There are two kinds of ugly boots. Here are some examples of the pretty and wearable kind. These two by asos:

...And the preferable, non-wedge topshop version:

These office shoes present an appropriate ugly-boot alternative.

There are, unfortunately, those kinds of ugly-boots which have ventured too far into the ugly realm: Bearded Tramp Boot, topshop ('argyle sock lined ankle boots').

Oh, and anything by Ugg crossed the line between Ugly and Too Ugly years ago.

On Saturday I'm going to stay in Brighton for two weeks. It has loads of vintage shops so one might presume I would be excited. However through recent experiences I have come to realise that vintage clothes, from pretty much any decade, are hideously ugly. So, unless I can develop an interest in overpriced silk scarves and clock pendants (the only mildy acceptable items available) that lasts for two weeks, I may have to spend the majority of my time in topshop or mac.

Saturday, 24 July 2010

Sorry

Blogger have just introduced the 'stats' tab that lets you see your blog traffic, but most importantly, it allows you to see how people accessed your blog. For example, a fair amount of people have stumbled upon my blog from the google search 'how to wear peg leg trousers.' Now I did a post a while back about the ugliness of certain fashion trends. These included peg leg trousers, which I defamed quite heavily. In fact I could rename the post 'the defamation of peg leg trousers.' So some poor sheep has gone out and bought some peg leg trousers, gone on t'internet to find out how to wear them, and pretty much been informed that their shiny new trousers will make them look fat and vile. It's the same story for fur gilets, and jumpsuits.

Thursday, 22 July 2010

Do you know what I hate?

Vegetarian shoes. I mean it's one thing to be a vegetarian. I'm far too unsympathetic and ignorant to understand how you could forgo meat for your whole life. But only wearing vegetarian shoes is taking it one step further. First of all, it's unforgivably smug. Like driving a hybrid and solar powering shit - sticking your annoying love for the planet in everyone's faces. They also tend to be hideous. I feel that I can prove that point with the word Crocs, but here are some examples I found on the delightful website Vegetarian Shoes. It claims its shoes are "cruelty free," how vile.


Now this is what happens when you try and make a shoe out of a material other than leather and plastic. Shoes made out of "Vegetan Bucky" must be extremely ugly - there is no other way.
I detest eco-friendliness. It's nauseating. So is the concept of 'organic clothes.' I have become quite adept at avoiding that tell-tale, grainy looking brown paper - the flag of the treehuggers, to whom I am the proud antagonist.

Monday, 12 July 2010

Magazine literature

My Glamour magazine the other day came with a free book. In these circumstances you have to ask yourself - why is the book free? After wasting two days of my life reading this piece of literature I realised. The book is free because the book is shit. 'I heart New York' is about everything you might expect it to be about. It involves dating, affairs, and working for a magazine. And shopping. But I somehow found myself reading it voraciously, even hiding away in my room, too ashamed to let anyone see. Maybe I was waiting for it to get good. Maybe I was captivated by the utterly dull writing style. Maybe I wanted to find out if she would choose Tyler or Alex.
I just went on the net-a-porter.com sale, with some insane notion that I might be able to afford something. If there actually something within my price range, I would simply have to buy it. Even if it was made of baby shit:

Even if it was faulty:

Not, however, if it was a poncho.

Personally I prefer my ponchos from The Edinburgh Woolen Mill, which boasts 'luxury cashmere in rainbow colours.' And this beauty of a polo neck:

Wednesday, 30 June 2010

Clothes Show London

We travelled for three hours on bus and train due to engineering works. We journeyed on the tube in 30 degrees. We plodded up to the doors of Earls Court, many of us feeling foot pain (except me who was wearing comfortable yet vile Clarks sandals). We entered, walking extra slowly as we passed the model scouts. They failed to notice us. We perused the various different stalls for a couple of hours. We found the model scouts' stand and we strolled past it a few more times. We got the message. We ate shockingly overpriced wedges with cheese. Some opted for barbecue sauce. For dessert we found a Muller free sample stall but failed to be over 16, thus not eligible for a rice pudding. We got pounced on by a pleasant Italian salesman who tried to sell us a shit nailbar kit. We got told that if we bought a £3 paper bag we'd get 3 goody bags instead of one. We neglected to realise these goody bags would be identical.
We went to the Fashion Theatre - a catwalk which was reasonably entertaining except for its failure to tell us where the clothes were from, the mediocrity of the choreography, and the anonymity of the supposedly celebrity presenters.




The photos were a slight fail due to the inconsiderate bastards sitting in the rows in front of us.

The highlight of the day was being able to stand in front of this wall. We felt special.

Wednesday, 9 June 2010

Clogs: What the hell

My magazine told me that Crocs were in. I read the sentence again about twelve times, to find that it actually said clogs; yet my anguish was reduced only infinitessimally.
What the hell.
To my understanding, these are clogs:

I might as well get it out in the open now: I own clogs. They were a sad by-product of a holiday in Holland. What are they? The Dutch failed attempts at early shoes? I can only imagine the sort of foot-related ailments these would cause. So naturally, when I saw the word 'clogs,' I spent a few distressed seconds imagining a wave of yellow wooden slabs, actively and happily vile.
Topshop's versions:

While slightly less vile than I feared, they manage to be hideous and elegant at the same time. You have to respect that clumpy, woody goodness. But I was suspicious: I feared there must be some greater ugliness lurking below the surface.

There is. 'Swedish Hasbeens,' who must be ecstatic that clogs are actually in fashion, have created these ugly shits. It's the yellow again. These must be the closest you can get to wearing clogs without actually wearing clogs (which should be punishable by death), and this deeply disturbs me.
Clogs - why? Why would you resurrect these ugly dogs? It's Chanel's fault - the same Chanel who caused Topshop to have a 'Temporary Tattoos' section on their website. I think Chanel are laughing as they increase the ugliness of our appearances bit by bit.

Sunday, 30 May 2010

WOW

We don't need geography lessons any more! They're being replaced with a single, once a year lesson that lasts about 3 hours. It's called Eurovision. First, you have to watch a combination of: European power ballads with pointless dancers and mega passionate key changes, some attempts at directional original music, Greek males prancing around in tight white costumes, the odd failed money note, and what ever shit the UK manages to throw together (this time in particular it was a 19 year old singing 'That sounds good to me,' something I can only describe as a naive young child agreeing to get in the car with a paedophile).
So after that lovely introduction to European culture, we have the voting. 12 points = neighbouring country, 1 point = UK, and this rule is so accurate that you can have endless fun compiling a map of Europe afterwards. Portugal will vote for Spain, Turkey will vote for Greece, Greece will vote for Cyprus, and the eastern countries all vote for eachother. The only fault with this lesson is that they sometimes throw in a country or two that doesn''t exist. 'Azerbaijan' and 'Belarus' were this year's examples, so make sure you don't get caught out.
The highlight this year was doubtlessly the man who pranced like a ballerina onto Spain's mediocre performance, raising its entertainment level by about 700%. Romania's fucking amazing invention of two pianos joined with some perspex came a close second, purely for its sheer amazement factor.

Monday, 17 May 2010

Duke of Edinburgh

Last weekend I walked 24km carrying a 11kg backpack, slept in the freezing cold on a shitty attempt at a sleeping mat, and ate crap food plus a spectacularly high quantity of sugar. Whilst tending to my 10-12 blisters, I've been trying to work out exactly why that certain weekend of my life has ended up as such, and I believe I've come to a reasonable conclusion. It is not because I thought it would be fun, nor is it because 'it will look good on my CV.' Unbelievably it's not even because I wanted to 'push my physical strength and stamina to the limit,' which I know is hard to come to terms with.
It's because I wanted to impress a series of old men. Firstly, our dear old assessor. He said our navigation was not good enough. We were sad and angry. The next day, he said our navigation needed to be 'nearly perfect.' We proceeded to ask him what would happen if it wasn't. He simply repeated: 'it needs to be nearly perfect,' because he's so intelligent and cryptic. But in our hearts we knew the answer - we would FAIL. I don't believe it was possible to spend an hour without being threatened by FAILURE. If we didn't pick up pasta off the grass - FAILURE. Getting in the way of cyclists - FAILURE. Rude to the assessors - FAILURE. Failure was a formidable and daunting concept that the assessors threw around frivolously, teasing and scaring our little hearts, to make themselves feel important. To try and forget, just for a few seconds, that their lives were insignificant - so insignificant and empty that they would willingly give up a whole two days to go chasing young girls through a forest.
Not that they weren't good at it. We'd be walking through the silent forest, and suddenly one of these smug little shits appears out of nowhere on his bike. He then removes his helmet (safety first), proceeds to tell us that we are lost, and observes that we are not smiling, before fucking off again. It makes me think - 'well these old men are awfully good at tracking young girls through a forest, but I'm going to ignore any implications that may have and not jump to any conclusions.'
So you can see why I wanted to impress them. God forbid they thought my navigation wasn't up to scratch.
But I've failed to mention the most important, judgemental and fucking pedantic old man of all. The Duke of Edinburgh himself. This man is old. He is a man that believes in guilty until proven innocent, a man that assumes that we are all liars, a man that thinks we still know how to use compasses, a man that totally refuses to acknowledge a certain modern convenience known as a sat nav. He is a man that employs a whole host of old men who are, each one, nearly as smug and pedantic as he is. Not forgetting the old women, but they are, as we know, simply tagging along to their husbands and doing the cooking. Google tells me he is the Queen's husband, but I'm no fool - the Queen's husband obviously lives in Buckingham Palace with her, not Edinburgh. I embarked on a 24km journey of pain to impress this old bastard.

Monday, 10 May 2010

You may remember a post added fairly long ago about Lipstick Queen. Well there is a Space NK apothecary in Brighton, which was honoured with my presence on Sunday. And it contained this longed-for brand. So I tried the colours out; but strangely, under the expectant eyes of the homosexual man and his blonde barbie collegue, I was not at all impressed by any of them. For some reason, they no longer held the magic I had formerly believed them to.
Isn't it funny that I can spend a weekend in Brighton, full of amazing one-off vintage shops, and come home with nothing to show for it except a Mac lipstick. It's also a shameful reflection on my character that, for the duration, I was striving for the Topshop and American Apparel of this city full of unique treasures.

Friday, 30 April 2010

stuff that is happening in the news

Imagine if a 14 year old school boy repeatedly hit his teacher over the head with a dumbbell shouting 'die, die die.' He would be expelled, probably imprisoned for at least a year. Neither the jury nor the judge would have any sympathy for him. So why, when the situation is reversed, does the teacher get acquitted? He might have been driven to the brink. But the fact remains that he attempted to murder one of the pupils - has that just been ignored? As a teacher he has the responsibility to be an example to the students. Anything the boy may have done is not at the same level as attempted murder. The teacher showed a complete lack of control that is childish and frankly vile.
I had a look on the Daily Mail website (an endlessly bountiful resource for balanced and intelligent critical opinion) to look at some of the comments on the article. The highest rated comments were in complete favour of the teacher - saying how he was a good and innocent man driven to madness by evil disruptive pupils. But he was 50. The boy was practically a child. In my (100% right) opinion, it's ridiculous and backwards.
Oh and then there's the election. Ho hum. How to choose between three identical parties with different names? Well I'll certainly be voting BNP, only joking. I tried to watch the election debates but got distracted by the ugly people in the audience, and David Cameron's creepy hypnotic, piercing eyes.

Sunday, 25 April 2010

so I just bought a horse top.

I am not an animal person. Maybe if I saw a picture of a particularly cute kitten, being mauled, I might manage a second of sympathy, but that is the extent of my interest. I would shoot a missile into a bunny or puppy nursery if it saved one person's life. I'm so disinterested that I don't even enjoy animal cruelty. As far as I'm concerned, animals are there purely to aid the existence of humans - they are tasty.
So why did I buy a top with a horse on it? I find horses a waste of space; the toys of posh people. Watching them prance about on TV is boring and shit, horse racing is boring and shit, polo is boring and shit, horses are just generally shit. I want to move to France so I can eat them legally. Oh and Black Beauty is a shit film. You might have thought that a horse is the last thing I want on my jumper.
Maybe I wanted to be ironic. Maybe it's because it's from Topshop. Maybe I just want to wear a horse on my jumper, because I can. I can confine it to the 5 inch space on my front, trap it forever, just to please me. I can own this horse.

Everyone's been barking on about Glee, and as I am repelled by musicals, especially American ones, I firmly refused to watch it. But yesterday I accidentally threw myself into the vortex and watched the first episode. And now I have to watch the second one.

Saturday, 17 April 2010

I got a new haircut

My hair now qualifies to be called brunette, how exciting?
The Debenhams range H by Henry Holland is quite possibly the first time I have ever wanted or liked clothes from Debenhams. So I went the other day to ransack it, brought about 23 things to the changing rooms, and didn't like any of them. For some reason, the ridiculously garish 80's style clothes didn't look as nice on me as they looked on Pixie Geldof.
Talking of Pixie Geldof, Georgia Jagger seems to be doing well. What's the trend here...? She was voted UK model of the year or something like that, so they were obviously going for the gormless, buck-toothed look.


She has abnormal front teeth. They are not attractive. They appear to instantly lower her IQ to about 3.
Madonna's daughter Lourdes had crazy eyebrows, then got them sorted out, finally.
Peaches did some shit, got in a magazine, did some other shit, then people stopped caring.

Friday, 2 April 2010

You Tub

I actually thought Youtube's new layout was some kind of hilarious April fools joke. It isn't. But that makes it sound like I'm against the layout, which is not, in fact, the case.
There seems to be some uproar about the removal of the 'ratings' system for a like/dislike type of affair. There is, however, one massive reason why the new system wins. As you well know, most of the people who watch and comment on Youtube videos are absolute brainless shits.
Here are some of my favourites.

'johnnyrocks200 this boy is soooooooooooo retarted'
'ChloeBabe8 LMAO, THAT WAS HALERIOUS!!!!!!!!!!!'
'TroyluvsGabi dang all u peeps who r against God r just the most ignorant people and i promise u that when Jesus comes to judge u will regret it. God does exist and if he doesnt then prove it.'

Ugh. And don't forget those complete lost causes who upload a... slideshow of images... with some shitty 'fade' transitions... and a crappy, pointless backing track... and call it a video. So, what I'm trying to say is that we seriously can't expect these primitive 12 year olds to choose between FIVE degrees of quality to rate a video. That requires significantly higher intelligence. Therefore, naturally, a simple like/dislike system is much more appropriate. No real thinking is necessary. Just decide whether the video makes you feel happy and warm inside, or uncomfortable and confused.
As for the rest of the changes, who really gives a shit? It's still Youtube. Just less clutter. Obviously the aforementioned primitive 12 year olds are not sufficiently capable to adapt to a slightly new system. Gosh - the user's videos are ABOVE the video itself rather then the right margin! Everything is ruined! And shit, I have to hover over the comments to reply to them.
On the subject of Youtube I want to pay tribute to a brilliantly scathing old man who makes fun of, well, religion &c. But don't watch if you are one of those people likely to get 'offended' (a fate worse than death, of course), or a part of that knuckle dragging Youtube pollution.
http://www.youtube.com/user/patcondell

Wednesday, 31 March 2010

a rational response

One buys knitwear in order to keep one's self warm. Therefore, a jumper such as this clearly has major design flaws.

Due to the large holes covering much of the garment, great heat loss would be experienced, and, as a jumper, this is utterly useless.
This bastard will have someone's eye out:

Vastly compromises mobility:

I just got some ridiculously lovely faith shoes which rival even my, also lovely, topshop shoes. Flats, of course, as heels cause endless podiatric and spinal damage, and are sharp. They are pretty and gay (meaning happy).

I don't really understand the whole 'banana' shoe ordeal. I see no practical advantage of having such a bendy, elastic shoe. It prevents one from being able to utilise their whole foot for weight-spreading purposes, and furthermore reduces the overall rigidity of the shoe; inevitably leading to excruciating pain and disablement in later life.
I am going away for orchestra merriment next week, so seven days of no internet. Unless of course the town of 'Blandford' (yes, Blandford) has internet connection, which I doubt insanely. AND I'll be having far too much fun with my little (£2k) fiddle to want to write in this piece of crap.
A new room update why not: We were pulling up the hall way carpet and chipping off the tiles in the room to make way for the lush wooden floorboards, and everything was generally going swimmingly. But then we found a raised steel gas pipe cutting across the hall floor and causing a raised ridge. A motherfucking steel gas pipe. So now we have to dig under and around the whole length of it to drop it like a millimetre, and we'll probably kill ourselves because it's a steel gas pipe.

Wednesday, 24 March 2010

I am slowly coming round to the idea of Uniqlo

I have always thought Uniqlo was like a lamer version of Gap. Selling plain, generic t-shirts in 12 different colours for a questionably high price alongside failed attempts at skinny jeans (I say this from personal experience and bitterness at having worn baggy skinny jeans for years). What made Uniqlo different from Gap was that it was Japanese, and therefore sold illustrated t-shirts in cylindrical plastic pots on shelves 15 foot high. So I've been ignoring Uniqlo for a while, until BAM. I see a few adverts in magazines, and my interest is captured. I try the website. Suddenly it's gone from Gap to a cleaner version of American Apparel (ignoring the topless women on the homepage). Good God - they sell jeans for £14.99 - jeans that look skinny, jeans that look ACCEPTABLE. Uniqlo churn out designs with machine-like efficiency: like the 3 varieties of legging, categorised by price. Some things are even on the verge of pretty, although I wouldn't go that far. They have a jumper with a cake on it. A cake. I have realised that Uniqlo doesn't just have to be for 30 year olds. Japanese 30 year olds.
I recently bought this top from Topshop:

I thought it was spiffy because it had a knot in it, and didn't they do that in, like, the 80's or something. And it practically goes with everything, including my primark sandals which cut my feet, which is good because it means I won't have to buy anything for a while as I'm saving up for Bestival or an ipod touch. Or maybe both perhaps. Or the Hollister sale which I hear is on, because I've realised I don't have a denim skirt.

Thursday, 18 March 2010

So What's New?

Nothing. Just asos pretending to be sophisticated, topshop churning out the occasional atrocity amongst all the other reasonable things, urban outfitters selling overpriced indie porn, new look trying really hard, net-a-porter being that place I go to if I want to marvel at how disgusting fashion is, french connection having a bearded man on the front page and declaring "this is man," dorothy perkins being a failed attempt at topshop for old ladies, look being one big advert, missoni making the ugliest cardigans I've ever seen, chanel no. 5 being expensive urine, and justin bieber being a prancing homosexual.

Wednesday, 10 March 2010

Sunday, 7 March 2010

I'm a Mac. I'm a PC. You bastard.

As a prologue to the following post I must point out some important details about our computer set up:
1. At our desk are two monitors linked to the same computer, one big ass 20" bugger and a smaller one.
2. We have been using Microsoft.

So today I settled myself in the familiar uncomfortable chair face to face with my two indulgent monitors. I 'wiggled' the mouse to rouse them from their slumber. Then as the big daddy 20" took a while to wake up, I noticed that the keyboard and mouse instruments before me seemed to have duplicated. There were now 2 keyboards and 2, er, mice. This struck me as rather unusual. But nothing could have prepared me for what happened next.
Expecting the usual background of rolling hills generic to Windows, I was instead presented with some pretentious cosmic galaxy scene. Something was wrong. I looked down at the task bar, only to find a sequence of hideously chintzed up little icons. Then I saw it. The 'Safari' compass. This was not Windows. This was not even Linux.

This was a Mac. Having spent a few minutes trying to find my way around the thing, I have compiled a list of useful notes.

1. Beware: the exit, maximise and minimise are on the left, in the form of cute little traffic light circles.
2. If you are using a non-Apple keyboard, you have to press " to get an @ and alt-3 to get a #.
3. Macs are illimitably prettier than Windows computers.

Seeing the Mac and Microsoft sitting grudgingly side by side on my little desk called to mind that sweet little advertising war between them, where Mac tried to say PC's were boring and wore business suits, and that Macs were carefree and artistic and hippy. Then the ruthless return from Microsoft, in which they showed all kinds of ridiculously active and adventurous people scubadiving, mountain climbing, skydiving, and showing their support for PC's. 'I partake in extreme sport activities, therefore I carefully chose a PC as it suited my lifestyle choice. People who have PC's are colourful, impulsive, happy, pretty and thin. Screw you Apple.'
On a final note, I would like to let it be known that as I sit here typing this, I am using Microsoft, despite its inferior attractiveness, as the Mac couldn't even carry out a simple task and connect to the internet.

Sunday, 28 February 2010

a tribute to Liberty prints

But first, you'll hear about my day.
Imagine two scenarios that differ from your usual daily routine, and that you would rather not do. Combine them, with the added factor of complicated timing and stress. That was my almost logistically impossible day.
Liberty is an amazing department store in London with the best window displays you will have ever seen. But the best things about it, in my opinion, are the fabrics. I wish to utilize some for curtains in my new room.




And they're relatively cheap, for somewhere that charges £340 for a small pouff.

Monday, 22 February 2010

alive

I went onto netaporter.com and clicked What's New and saw a lot of black; black shoes, black dresses, a black leather jewellery box. And I thought, why is there so much black? Is it so the rich people can pretend they are mourning for the late Scottish man? Out of curiosity I clicked Designers then Alexander Mcqueen so I could see what they'd said about them in the little suck up paragraph they make for all the designers. At the bottom there was the option, Sign up for Alexander Mcqueen updates, which I thought was very questionable.
The Topshop website's christmas sale is still going on, embarrassingly for them. Most of it's gone, except for the few disasters that no one could ever want, no matter how big the reduction. Like for instance, these delightful... sequinned... tapered.. trousers.

The funniest thing is that there were about 5 different colours of these, all competing to outlast eachother. It should teach them to not make so much shit. The excuse that it's Topshop doesn't work for everything.
Four good things:
1. Skins
2. The natural confectionary company sweets, red and pink only
3. Harrods
4. My new violin bow, it has a fucking crown on it.

Sunday, 14 February 2010

Suicide: the latest fashion statement


The death of Alexander McQueen has left me, not particularly grieving, but asking myself if a sudden influx of suicides will follow. Perhaps a small percentage of these will be due to sadness, etc. But the thought playing on my mind is that if the desire to follow fashion can prompt people to wear these:

...Then it knows no bounds.
Let us look back on a few Alexander McQueen pieces.

From the 'Highland Rape' collection.

Not entirely sure, but it's lovely etc...

And er, holy shit.

Saturday, 6 February 2010

Suddenly I want a chanel bag. I think it stemmed from my religious reading of fakekarl. They just look so soft and elegant and iconic.

I'd be happy with a replica, but the replicas are all bloody expensive anyway and half the fake designer bag sites have been shut down. 'A court ordered this domain name transferred to Loius Vuitton and Chanel.' Unnecessary, in my opinion, as it's not like they're losing any customers. Anyone trying to find a replica Chanel is not going to have the money to buy a real one.
While I'm at it, I rather fancy one of those nice chanel jackets too. One of the OAP ones, so I can make a hilarious ironic statement in my youth. And I might as well extend it to the quilted pumps; although Primark made a copy and now I associate them with being bent and dirty and skanky.
Talking of iconic Chanel, the No.5 perfume is disgusting. Not because it's too rich or spicy or old or whatever, but because it is urine. It looks like urine in the bottle, it sprays yellow onto the testing card, and it smells like piss. When I tried it in Debenhams I was seriously debating whether someone had emptied the bottle and actually weed in it. It's inconceivable how it could smell like anything resembling perfume.

It has a nice... label though.

Friday, 29 January 2010

oh, the shame

Oh, the unimaginable, unspeakable, crying shame of putting your card in the wrong way round in the machine. And the shop guy having to take it out, personally, and turn it round.
I really love the British kind of interior design theme. Maybe it's because I'm secretly really patriotic, or because I hate my country and want to make an ironic statement, or because I just think it looks hot. It's probably important to stress that I mean the vintage, wartime theme; not the chavvy, football supporter theme.