Magazine Porn. (eye candy for magazine lovers... not a porno)

A lovely person gave me the French magazine 'Madame Figaro' this weekend, which they'd picked up on a trip lately. Being obsessed with magazines of all shapes and sizes and languages, I got pretty darned over excited.C'est tres bon! Well, that's the extent of my French so I'll just stick a load of pics on here...

It's a beaut of magazine so rather than photographing every page I took some snaps of the juiciest shoots using an artsy fartsy app on my phone...

...totally in love with the pixie-cropped girl below, but have learnt the hard way that I can't pull off a crop thanks to spending a whole summer looking like a ten year old chubby little boy when I had all my hair lobbed off. Bad, bad times.

Enjoy! ♥

After A Month Of Fashion Weeks: We Must Adore The Madness

The Fabulous Louise Gray AW12

Many mentalists end up in asylums, others manage to slip through the bars, escape and become fashion designers, which is the real reason why the majority of people in the fashion industry are skeletal.

This does not, however, mean the fashion industry deserves the bad rep it has been permanently tarnished with and in the wake of London Fashion Week I think it’s time we all made friends with what is assumed to be a ‘travelling freak show’ of twats who pass out at the sight of a shoe.

First and foremost, any multi-billion pound industry inspired by lunatics who survive off caffeine and class A’s deserves to be heartily celebrated: they’re running financial circles around every economist in Europe. They must be doing something right. I struggle to even open an email after a heavy night: John Galliano was pissed and high for two decades yet still wowed the most influential players in one of the largest industries in the world whilst helping to define possibly the most fantastically tacky sartorial era so far, even if he did end up outing himself as a racist Nazi and falling from grace in a cloud of coke and pinstripes and feathers…

I can understand how from the outside it all seems horribly pretentious and bizarre but even Queen Vivienne herself doesn’t really expect you to wear head to toe PVC just because the ‘next big thing’ new designer chose to send twelve doped up models down a runway looking like extras from a Britney video circa 1999. Besides, if that is a look you fancy rocking then you can buy far cheaper alternatives from a range of X-rated sites which will gladly infest your C drive with a plethora of viruses and, should you spend over £25 on an entirely wipe clean two piece, will throw in an appreciative tube of courtesy lube too, which is always a nice gesture (it baffles me why Sainsbury’s haven’t tried this tactic yet – what the fuck are nectar points..?)

I can see that the eye watering price points of high end fashion don’t do much to help the cause. When you see a dress that costs more than a deposit of a two bed semi sashaying down the catwalk hanging off a starved Russian sixteen year old it can be hard to see where the credibility is hiding under all that fabric, but in much in the same way that I can enjoy watching films without bursting a blood vessel in outrage over the how far-fetched it is that Tom Cruise can still run like a Duracell bunny and Harrison Ford can still move (at all) I’m able to take it with a hefty pinch of salt and happily indulge in the fantasy.

Jamie Oliver When He Was A Hot Young Piece

Of course there will always be unsavoury aspects to an industry which revolves around the way we look, but judging each other is a human condition which cannot be cured simply by choosing the most dull-as-arse shoes possible in the M&S sale. Look at Kate Middleton: she’s worked her dull duchess derriere off to ensure she’s dressed as inoffensively as possible, and is now worshipped by every bland-as-soup woman in the country, taking pride of place next to Jamie Oliver at the altar of annoying British people whom such plebs idolise because they think ‘they must be just like me and you’. They’re not like us. In fact I have no doubt Jamie bathes in his own branded elderflower presse and uses fifty quid casserole dishes embossed with his logo as makeshift bedpans to take midnight shits in just because he’s Jamie Fucking Oliver and is far too tired from being a superhero who rescues kids from dodgy school burgers to bother walking to the toilet at night.

Well, the high priestesses of the fashion world are not like us civilians either. Indeed, those who choose to indulge will have no reservations about spending hundreds, thousands even on a mammoth ball of fur to place on their head like a feral cat escaping a flood, but to steal a phrase from the fash-pack themselves; isn’t it all just bloody fabulous?

Normal life can be balls. We trudge around trying not to dress too slutty for the office and avoiding wearing anything bright enough to get us mistaken as extras from 80’s musicals on the tube, but perhaps if more people embraced the absolute lunacy of high fashion, even just a tad, then the world would be nothing but a brighter, more entertaining place.

Finally!! Sheer - without revealing your ta-tas. Cheers Topshop.

So I'm a big fan of the sheer blouse. To such an extent that when I showed a potential top half purchase to a friend recently they actually cocked their head to one side and came back with: "Yeeeah... but it's not very you... I mean, it's not even remotely see-through."

Something I do have a little trouble with however, is how to do sheer in the daytime. Or the work place. Generally anywhere you would not usually reveal your undies. Or nips, should the climate be approapriate or the flowing of G&T's be guarenteed.This little quandry was instantly remedied when I stumbled upon this little Toppers number, for a snip at £36. Strategically placed chiffon pleating.. thank you, you clever ladies and gents at Topshop, BRAVO.

I WANT TO GET ME ONE OF THEM

Apologies for how frequently I am about to mention vomit.....

I've been cursed with the seasonal lurgy. It caught up with me sometime last week between Euston and Camden on the Northern line. A hot flush and a dizzy spell in your twenties can only mean one thing - it's that time of year again when that bastard mid-week hangover meets the Decemeber chill and the two tussle over your immune system until you almost pass out and face plant the scuzzy tube seat next to you. Or vomit into the fake Louis Vuitton belonging to the woman squashed up against you. That's pretty standard though, those things are fugly and I fully intend to make it my mission to destroy each and every one of them in this city with my seasonal chunder.

Sorry, enough vom talk....

Anyhoo, so I'm ill and finding myself confined to my flat with only a pile of magazines and the www for company. For me this means the joy of an absolute blogathon: something which is usually confined to my eat-and-you'd-miss-it lunch break, I've been scrolling through hours of outfit posts, 'inspirational imagery', belated catwalk reports and in-store tip offs. Lovely stuff. But last night as I clicked the laptop screen shut before shuffling off to bed I didn't feel such gratification from my blog viewing binge. I was actually just pretty pissed off....

Personally, I adore fashion because it's fun. Yep, I know it is the architecture of society, it's one of the most significant ways of conveying the mood of a culture and it encapsulates the aesthetic of generations, but seriously guys, when did it loose its sense of humour? Fashion taken too seriously is just painful - it bites at your ankles and chases you around the room trying to strangle you with a pair of black leather-look leggings. Minimalism is beautiful and exudes control and elegance but if I have to see another photo of a sullen faced (yet beautiful) top-knotted girl in a beige buttoned up shirt I'm going to hurl (AGAIN. And this time all over a beige buttoned up shirt, which I'll take a photo of and post on my blog. HAH.)

Also, I totally get it that a large slice of the allure of the high-fashion world is that it excludes rather than includes: nothing would seem aspirational if it was smiling and dancing and asking for hugs in every other photo. And I suppose those who do embrace fashion in the whimsical, frivolous way get sideways looks on the street because people assume that you are a freaky colour clashing crazeee. But blogging is magical because it gives anyone who has an opinion a voice - even if it only gets heard by one person, at least its out there - so why not use it to make the steely stick thin fashion world a little bit more real and a little cosier? I'm probably getting pissy over a small minority of whats out there. Maybe I just stumbled across the wrong pages. Maybe I'm just too zoned out on pain killers and I've been removed from social interaction for far too long and I'm being a massive grouch..... PERFECT - I'm off to take a photo of myself looking moody, wearing something minimal and sucking in my cheeks. YESS I'M SO IN.

Q: "Surely only mentalists would queue overnight waiting for a shop to open?!" A: "Babe, it's Versace. And I'm British."

Trying to remind myself where  I was in the wee hours.

So over the past 24 hours I have experienced a somewhat life-altering cacophony of revelations. First and foremost, that Donatella Versace's lips do in fact require their own post code. They have their own assistant, entourage and they also own a small chiwawa called Pickles....

More relevantly, I realised that it is actually possible to rationalise sleeping rough all night on Regent Street just to get your hands on a load of Versace Swag - oh the power and the sheer GENIUS of the H&M high street/designer collaboration has proved, once again, irresistible to even the most sane of fashion fans. Its reach actually extends even further beyond the many girls and boys who have been anticipating the arrival of the first ever purse friendly Versace offering, to the somehow-savvy kids who fancied making a tidy sum buying up as many items their backpacks could handle in order to sell off their finds via Ebay hours after the collection was opened to the public and inevitably, very promptly, sold out.

Paul G: A true Gent.

For a mere 11 hour stint I managed to bag a teensy bottle of free Versace yellow diamond perfume (ermm... win...?) shake Donatella's hand and conjure up: "You look amazing.... oh god I feel like crap" to say to her before almost becoming entranced by her mammouth pout and finally elbowing her out of the way in favour of reaching the studded leather section.

I also mustn't fail to mention the wonderful, rather drunken 1am visit from my dear friend Paul which made a couple of hours fly by in a flurry of blueberry muffins, loudly shouted obscenities (Paul, not me, he's a deviant) and the hilarity of trying to explain that this had nothing to do with 'Vivace' and a jumble sale at HMV... oh Paul how I do adore you.


I understand if you are still wholly unconvinced that anyone who chooses to spend 12 hours shivering on the pavement waiting for H&M to open is not more than a few currants short of a chelsea bun. But for me there was method to the madness: even after being unfortunate enough to be photographed as 'one of those hardcore fashion obsessed crazies' at the front of many hundreds of bewildered queueing Versace fans by a hoard of well turned out (and well slept, you bastards) fashion bloggers and journos feeling like I'd decayed overnight into a female version of Blackadder's Baldrick. Not the most flattering moment to be photographed. Or filmed, thank you very much Grazia... [a few of the aforementioned life-altering realisations arise here, including 'Find way to make head less peanut/potato shaped - a fringe perhaps??' and 'For christ's sake try and sound less: whoopsie daises + daddy I want a pony!' Why has it taken me 24years to realise what my own cringe-worthy voice sounds like?! Perhapas a slap of make up wouldn't have gone amiss here either. Lesson learnt. View the vid here. but be warned: I WANT, I WANT, I WANT.....]

Anyway, to sum up the reason for all this silly behaviour: I'm a hybrid of fashion curious shopaholic who can shamelessy admit to enjoying a slice of glossy hyped up fashion 'history' and a shrewd little scally who wants to make a few bucks - because MAN ALIVE anyone with a clue knows that these dresses are going to fly like a golden pheonix on Ebay - and straight to my Paypal account, thank you very much Donatella. As my Dad so wisely put it earlier on the phone, I now have to think of myself as a drug dealer: what would happen if I just took all the drugs?! (Good question, Dad. Maybe I'd have a Versace overdose, wear the clothes day and night until I couldn't remember where Versace began and I ended? I'd ruin my relationships and my career go down the gutter as soon my garish appearance would become too much for anyone to witness.. This could honestly go on and on. I don't even have the energy to go into how hilarious my Dad's choice of analogy is)

I will most likely keep my fave items, or at least the ones which I can actually pull off, but as much as I would LOVE to have bought out the entire collection and proceed to wow at every xmas 'do' in the coming six weeks with a different Versace enemble, I'm desperate to make a buck, can't afford to be a romantic fashion obsessive in this case and dammit* I've put in the hard work of staying up all night on Regent Street so some Rich Banker's Girlfriend didn't have to. Ans that's fine. Maybe not so fine for you Mr Rich Banker, but you can afford it, so shut up. 

Bringing home the Bacon.

After all, there'll always be the opportunity to buy it back, perhaps a little tired and worn, in 18months time when the much anticipated collection ages into mere cast-offs. And then I'll treasure whatever bargains I get my mits on knowing that their spanking new predessors were my meal ticket for a couple of months - and nothing looks better than big old smug smile....

NOW, THE IMPORTANT BIT, HERE'S WHAT I PURCHASED:

Pink studded Silk Dress that Donatella herself was wearing Thursday morning....

THE jacket - it's even better in the flesh... it's velvet and so bright and colourful it could give you a seizure.

Softer than butter Leather dress with gold studs. This dress is basically THE SEX.

AMAZING dust bags free with each item. You could actually just wear one of these they're that puuurdy.

Oh and full on VELVET hangers. Yum.

(*Somewhat irrelevantly, I'd just like to add that I read The Graduate to pass many of the hours... which is perhaps where I've picked up the use of the antiquated curse word 'dammit'. Much better than the 'c' word anyway...)