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.

Oh To Live Like Mylene Klass....

I have granted myself 4 days off work. Which means (including the heaven sent weekend) I have 6 whole days straight of not wanting to lynch myself with my office PC mouse cable. Hoooray.

The first day I spent in a dream, sleeping until 8am - 8 I TELL YOU!! - and then eating a leisurely bowl of branflakes and drifting around my tiny flat making small contented 'Hmm' sounds every time I wafted into a different room and did nothing at all. By 11am I had itchy feet so upped and left to do something similar around the foodhalls of Harrods. I took some snaps of my venture into the yuppie quarter, and made them into a mini collage to celebrate my day of bugger all. Oh to live like Mylene Klass. Marvellous.

Lady Gaga Proposed To Her Fella: Should You?

If the showbiz rumour mill is to be believed (AND IT IS. ALWAYS.), Lady Gaga was one of the women to step up and make herself an honest woman this leap year by proposing to her Vampire Diaries lover, Taylor Kinney. But ladies, before there is stampede to the nearest H.Samuels in loyal, blind following of the Gaga’s freaky footsteps, remember that this is a woman who also didn’t think twice about donning a sirloin as a dress and a crustacean as a hairpiece. What’s more, it wasn’t until her third music video featuring her wearing nothing but bondage knickers that the world actually began to believe she didn’t have a ‘gigantic donkey dick’: so whether she’s followed the gender reversing leap year tradition, or is in fact just another dude in love, we’ll never know.

In fact, it is my hope that the majority of sane women of the world have had slightly more pressing things to occupy themselves with this year than hopping about with their matrimonial legs crossed, trying not to piss themselves in hope that their boyfriend will one day put them out of their singleton misery and seal the god damn deal. The tradition crutch which marriage lamely hobbles around on these days may suggest that any single woman older than Miley Cyrus is a desperate spinster who sobs snot bubbles over My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding and licks images of Kate and Wills in Hello magazine in hope of ingesting some good romantic fortune, but it’s my suspicion that most are too busy cackling over their fifth bottle of Prosecco on Thursday evenings and joining the cougar-crew by taking advantage of Harry Styles lookalikes on the weekends to actually give a flying fuck about the naked state of their wedding finger,

However, ladies, if you do want a good reason to cram in a last minute proposal, let it be this: a law passed in 1288 in Scotland decreed that, should the lady be rejected, she should be entitled to fine the unlucky object of her commitment starved affections to the value of anything from a kiss to £1, to ‘the silk from which to make a gown’. Amazing. A man proposing on any other day of the year is left with nothing more than his penis protracting back inside him in brain bleeding embarrassment. Personally, I couldn’t wait to propose to my bewildered Post Man this morning, only to frog-march him down to John Lewis to compensate me with twelve pairs of lambskin gloves which I will use to spank his balding head for the remainder of the year, as per the Dutch reimbursement folk tale (minus the noggin spanking). Now surely, when ambitions and opportunities are endless and you could be out glove shopping with Posties and sipping £1 shandies over half drunk compensation kisses, there is suddenly a lot more to life than planning a wedding?!

So, men, as much as you may have enjoyed teasing the woman who toils next to you in the office about stocking up the kitchen cupboard with enough Gin to drown their impending marriage rejection: BEWARE. For she is likely to 1) knee you in the jugular until you SHUT THE FUCK UP or 2) trick you out of an easy quid. As men across the world pruned their pubes in pant wetting anticipation of some post-engagement celebratory sex, perhaps they should have considered that not all women are foaming at the mouth with one-sided marriage hunger. In fact gents, there’s probably a better chance of Britain winning the Olympics than you winning a wife this leap year.

January. Like December, but without the good stuff....

NO, SANTA IS NOT IN REHAB: THE FOUL McCRIRICK

Tis the season to miss the past month like your first true love and weep inside whilst salivating over steaming crusty baguettes and hunks of alluring cheesy golden goodness sitting pompously on the discount 'Festive Food' shelves as you avoid it like HELL whilst darting through M&S Food at full speed because it is the quickest shortcut to the high street and it is pissing it down with rain outside.

Without a shadow of a doubt, January is the Beelzebub of all months. If December is David Tennant (warm, sparkling with joy and too impossibly cheerful to be sober) then January is John McCririck (engorged, repugnant and full of the discontent which comes when you realise you'll have to wait another eleven and a half months until it will be acceptable to pop a bit of Bailey's into EVERY drink you consume and pour over every meal. Ice cream and Bailey's? Um YES PLEASE. Chocolate cake and Bailey's? HELLO SIR! Mash potato with Bailey's stirred in.... I THINK SO!)

THE AWESOME JOY OF TENNANT

If I had a quid for every person who voiced hopes of reforming their post 2012 eating habits and instead fuelling themselves as if they were taking part in the forthcoming Olympic insanity then I would be showered with such wealth that I could quit my job and live every day as if it were the holy, comforting month of December. I'd sleep on a bed cushioned with Ferrero Rocher, could employ (but inevitably sack after an awkward personal space issue) Cliff Richard as my very own Christmas Carol serenader and would dress only in chains of tinsel wrapped tightly around my bulging, festive and joyful rolls of fat.
Sadly, the likelihood of this happening is pretty dim. And, to add insult to injury, I too have wheezed and clambered on to the New Year health kick bandwagon. At the very least I'm trying to avoid the company of cheese and chocolate for a while - I did attempt to round it off to a nice group of three 'ch' foods to wean myself off, but could only come up with cherries (not so sinful) and Chinese (I can't quit the food of a whole country. That would just be racist.) So here I am, four days in and my cheese radar has gone into overdrive. That pair of soggy shoes I left on the radiator to dry out this evening? Not such a bad stench after all. At least gnawing on one of my many hole-ridden Primark pumps will be a cost effective solution to actually eating. Because, as well as being a bit chubs, I am of course nearly completely skint after the eye-wateringly expensive revelry of Christmas. Every last penny squandered on potatoes and Bailey's. Happy Sodding New Year....

Waging War on the Commuting Couples....

If you are privileged enough to not need to wade through hoards of plebs as part of your expedition from warm bed to cold hard desk each weekday morning then you can probably stop reading now. I have a small rant to let loose which I'm sure many fellow commuters will relate to if, like me, they've been wound up to screaming point by the  tribulations involved in getting from A to Office whilst trying to retain some sanity, a small degree of composure and (oh please God) without breaking a sweat.

My major issue here lies in a particular sub-section of Londoners who make me feel like I would rather not 'Mind The Gap' but instead use it as a disposal unit for these most annoying of people clogging up the transport system: yes, I'm looking at you COMMUTING COUPLES.

Don't even think about it you two....

Let me just start by saying what I have been dying to let out for almost half a year now: "Fuck you, commuting couples. Go home." You have tarnished countless mornings with your sleepy, weepy dough eyed fixations on each other. I've tried to ignore you. I've looked away, read the newspaper, dug my nails into my palms in an attempt to distract myself from the fury you induce. But whatever I try, as soon as raise my head there you are, clinging onto each other with fear as 8.24am looms with the intention of tearing you away from one another for eight, whole, heart aching hours. The sad longing in your faces is too much to tolerate: as if the working day was just a cruel idea conjured up by dark, empty souls who wanted to see early morning lovers torn apart.

If it looks this good (and the train is this empty) then it's ok....

Don't get me wrong: I'm all for the love. I'm the first to fling my arms around my closest of friends as we unite for post-work drinks, and with lucky boyfriends of the past I have had no reservations about sneaking in a little public weekend smooch should the moment take us (following the obvious rules of no tongues, no inappropriate groping and ABSOLUTELY no noises. Bleugh.) My main issue here is that to enjoy any form of physical contact on the tube is simply perverted. In an environment where there is a strong likelihood of having your cheek pressed up against a stranger's armpit whilst the guy behind you 'unintentionally' gets his hand wedged up against your derriere, to flaunt your pleasure at being squashed up against your commuting comrade is just sick. Think of the productivity you could achieve if you perhaps left the house 3 minutes before your partner? You could actually read something en route to work or you could use your un-held hand to text one of the many friends who you inevitably neglect or even just indulge in some independent thoughts perhaps?

Look at how shocked Boris was when I told him about the issue. Poor Boris.

 I'm not just idly ranting here, I actually have a well devised solution of this pandemic: TFL simply need to introduce a 9am watershed on romantic interaction. Perfect. They ban petting in public swimming pools so why not ban necking on the Northern Line? It makes perfect sense - anything that could help London's worker bees to be a little less tense has got to be worthwhile. I bet Boris would love it.

 So, Commuting Couples, snap out of it and stop tripping me up with your combined width when I'm racing though Victoria or the petition will be set into motion. If I'm expected to keep my porridge down in public then I expect you to keep you tongues to yourselves.

 You have been warned.

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...)

Life's a bitch and then you.. cry.

Like many girls with a penchant for the finer things in life, I have always had an insatiable love for Mashed Potato. The billowing mounds of buttery goodness have seen me through the toughest of times: providing comfort during my early uni days when life's problems were solved by a bag of Asda instant, the remnants of a pot of Bisto and a kettle; adding a glistening silver lining to many a failed Atkins attempt and, of course, being the crowning glory of so many Sunday Roasts. My relationship with mash has not not always been entirely 'lump free', however.


I was probably a bit of a weeper as a kid: growing up on a field in sunny Sussex, not used to many disappointments in life and perhaps a tad over-sensitive. Frustration and anger sought me out one very unremarkable Sunday afternoon when I was dealt a large helping of unsavoury news: mashing potatoes were OUT OF SEASON?! The moment the news sunk in so did my heart, and hot unwelcome tears began to pump into my face: the now so familiar feeling of my lips and eye lids uncontrollably swelling up as I tried to stop what I knew was inevitably about to erupt. In an attempt to defend my eleven year old self - new potatoes honestly are not comparable to the old classics: there is nothing fluffy or indulgent about a new potato. It's like trying to substitute Scarlett Johansen for Marilyn Monroe. Ludicrous. Still, whatever degree of justification I can scrape together, I did cry over potatoes. I wept, sobbed and snotted through loyalty to a root vegetable. This is what crossed my mind last night as I felt a small embarrassed tear try and prickle it's way to the surface whilst on the tube home, following what I can only describe as an absolute 'shitter' of a day: life can't always be mashed potatoes... sometimes, life will trip you up, kick you up the arse and deal you out an unwelcome helping of newies. But to let it get you down, when there are actual real, relevant problems and issues happening to far less fortunate people in the world, would be equally as ridiculous as I was that fateful Sunday. So I gulped back the frustration and anger and managed to hold it together. At least until I got home, and found a cupboard bare of Bisto. Ah yes, and now for the Gravy metaphor of life.........

First boyfriends... and Hanson....

So I don't just spend all my time job hunting, facebooking and ranting about car boot sales on here... I cruised a little further into the internet-o-sphere this morning and found something which made me giggle my socks off and very much reminded me of some good (well, mainly good) old days.

It's a blog post by 3 highly witty girls who all figured out they'd had the same first-song as each other with their first boyfriends. They've each written a little letter to their first crushes and it's a must read, check it out here at the Fabricly Blog.

Now, I too am going get a little blast from the past fired up now, so you should probably play this link while you're reading the rest of this post, to set that 1990's ambience (and for other reasons which will emerge later...)

It got me rummaging around the dusty corners of my memory trying to recall what my first ever boyfriend-song was, as I thought this would be a pleasant thing to share on here: or at least it would give my mates a bit of a laugh (I do believe I made some rather questionable decisions in my school days, and my taste in music was a bit crap too...) 

Now, I honestly don't believe it was due to any kind of scarred emotional mind block of jittery brain butterflies but I came over all foggy and really was not sure how to determine who my first REAL boyfriend was. I mean, pinpointing your first love is a doddle, I can remember that as vividly as the trauma of the first time I broke a bone (vaulting over a gate, aged 12) or had the crushing realisation that we are all going to die... eventually so what is the point in... anything?!?! (watching the film Beaches, aged 11) or failing my driving test (yeah I still can't drive... I'll write a whole post about this heart break eventually). 

But between kiss chase, holding hands and being 'asked out' in secondary school - but never actually going anywhere at all - it's seems it was just as hard to determine what the parameters of an actual girlfriend/boyfriend relationship were back then as it increasingly is now... 

Going with the instincts of my earliest recollections, there was a particular pale, unintimidating boy from Year 6 who I definitely agreed to go absolutely no where with. He never kicked the ball at me full pelt in the playground and didn't blatantly pick his nose and eat it in the class room (although I do have theory that ALL men are culprits for this throughout their lives and once I have the stats and photographic evidence I will blow the lid off this...) so by my 11 year old standards he was a grade-A-dreamboat. As with all men, however, it did prevail that this man possessed one unavoidable flaw: his 1990s polyester Hanson wallet, which was decorated with an image of the three boys, looking vacant and approapriately bored with their lives, printed across the front and back. 

Not the exact item in question, but a very good example.
Oh my, I TOTALLY want one of these now....

Yep, he was a die hard, HANSON fan. All these teeny-bopping Belieber's who think they are unique in their besotted fixation on the young helmet-haired Justin Beiber clearly have no knowledge of the powerful allure of the 1990s boy band. For those who can't recall Hanson, they are those dorky kids who looked like girls with long flowing blonde mops of hair but made music which made you feel like everyday was a Saturday, and who you should be listening to right now if you were obedient and clicked the youtube link above.*

Anyway. Inspired by the brilliant girls on Fabricly, I am going to write a short letter to my first boyfriend, who I will keep anonymous in case by some freak chance he ends up actually coming across this...

* F.Y.I. I'm pretty sure the middle one, you know, the one who was neither oldest nor youngest and always stood in the middle... has now matured substantially into a rather a hot ticket, hair cut and everything. Actually, I'll try and find a piccy using the wonders of the internet.....

NOW: Very Pretty Man

THEN: Pretty Girl