NEW SHIT

http://philippasnow.wordpress.com

Graduate now and all that. Probably need to use an actual name.

CLICK THIS MOTHERFUCKER! CLICK IT!

I promise I’ll be good this time. Maybe.

(If any of you still have Trashforce in your links, I’d be so grateful if you’d make the switch. It’s kind of like changing to digital, isn’t it?)

R.I.P

http://www.touristmagazine.co.uk/

http://www.touristmagazine.co.uk/#philippasnow.php

FLIP YER FACE

Things you would most like to hear a male model say, number 1,232:

“All I really want to do is concentrate on my law degree.”

Things you would least like to hear a male model say, number 1,3,54:

“All I really need to do is pass A Level chemistry.“

Lurching from one financial crisis to another, life went tits up for a while. Need to make some money and am thinking of starting an online shop, but who am I kidding? At a push, I could organise a piss-up in a brewery, yes, but I’m better at organisation when I’m drunk, anyway. Back at the weekend. Need some genius to redesign my blog for no dollar whatsoever, as my custom subscriptions ran out, and I am stupid.

As my grandma writes on her prescriptions, “Still alive – send more pills.”

SOLID GOLD EASY ACTION

Already this LFW, I keep seeing this girl and that same pair of torn Henry Holland tights everywhere:

Internet research (spurred on by seeing a twitpic of her arse circulating the web with the caption “Oh, how are the mighty fallen! First Henry Holland Tights in T K Maxx, and now this?“) suggests that she goes by the monicker of “Lady Bolshie”, and is a seventeen-year-old fashion vagina designer whose nu-rave leotards – with dangling plastic baby heads on the shoulders, no less – would presumably to appeal to a certain other Lady with a known aversion to trousers (I’m reluctant to be the one to solve that timeless conundrum “Which came first, the Bolshie or the Gaga?“, although given that Gaga had six years on her rival, I might speculate that she has the advantage).  It definately isn’t my sort of thing, but then it wasn’t when neon was in fashion either, although I’m fairly sure I remember having a day-glo bracelet with a miniature kewpie doll on it when I was thirteen, if that helps.

Here’s the thing, Ms. Jones (I would be more comfortable using your real name, if it’s all the same with you): I think it’s great that you’ve moved away from Hull and into the big city so young, and that you’re “pursuing your dream” of being an avant-garde vagina designer, and all that other stuff that we’re all supposed to do, but usually forget because we’re busy doing things like being overweight or wearing trousers. Really. If I’d had half that motivation when I was seventeen, I’d probably be doing something far more fabulous right this minute than writing a blog entry, although it must be said that what I lacked in motivation, I (just barely) made up for in body coverage. And I’m certainly nothing if not envious of your willowy teenage thighs, the likes of which, my being the wrong side of twenty by now, are a distant memory to me, synonymous with a time when I also used a fake ID which required me to affect an Irish accent, or when not being carded was, most likely, the high point of a saturday night.

But:

The longer I look at this picture on The Facehunter, the more I start to worry that I’m going to end up like Pete Townsend, insisting that I was “only researching a blog entry”, and that it was completely by accident that I ended up coming within a hair’s breadth of seeing an under-18′s sex parts. I mean, I’m not saying that I was a nun when I was seventeen – I don’t think anyone would ever suggest that – but it’s daylight and zero degrees outside, girl! Honeychile, isn’t your vulva cold? I’m not going to be a total stick-in-the-mud and make the obligatory “look into pants” comment, partly because I am British and therefore am literally looking in your pants right now, but at least look into opaques. I feel like Gary fucking Glitter.

THE NUMBER OF THE BEAST

So apparently, Alexander Wang is really hoping that we’ll all start dressing like teenage goths having a sleepover in 1995, possibly watching The Craft on VHS and trying to cast love spells on John in Economics.

I would also imagine that there’s a decent joke to be had from the surname “Wang” and the phrase “As light as a feather, as stiff as a board“, but I’ll leave that one up to you.

EGYPTIAN REGGAE

Yeah, I know. Three weeks! It seems like I only update once a month at the moment, but you should know that I’ve been very busy lately with a number of things. I  would suggest that you might be curious as to what I’d been doing, but honestly, no-one’s to say that you’re reading this at all, given that there are a thousand blogs out there which actually do manage to operate with greater regularity than a teenage menstrual cycle; nevertheless, I’m going to let you know anyway, because I feel guilty and like a horrible blogger, and also because it’s either that or doing my laundry, which is usually depressing.

So.

Finishing the work for my interrim exhibition: Although I’m sure if you like this blog, you’d like the imagery, I’m pretty sure the art stuff is of little interest to you. Don’t feel bad, though. It isn’t of much interest to me either, at the moment.

Boxing up an enormous number of headpieces and sending them to Diane Von Furstenberg: For those of you who don’t know me personally, a backstory – Michael, the guy in blog entry which we will call, Friends style, The One With The Rubber Trousers, ended up designing the gilded, laurel-style headpieces in the DVF S/S10 show, which were sort of like something that a particularly lavish emperor might wear when lounging around in his vomitarium. Ironically enough, after an evening of untangling 60 of the little bastards from each other and trying to pack them into fedex boxes – destination: a department store window or an Olsen twin’s scalp near you –  I felt just about ready to use the vomitarium myself, not least because of an entire weekend spent getting, as Billy Ocean might put it, out of my brain and into your car.

Boxing up yet more things, to be sent to every magazine under the sun: Over the last week, I’ve also started interning part-time at a fashion PR firm in Shoreditch, which represents designers like Julian J Smith and Christopher Shannon, so I’ve been filling more boxes than John Terry (Hey now!) in the run-up to fashion week, as well as pulling clothes for everyone from Dazed & Confused to i-D. While this has been extremely fulfilling – tiring, but enjoyable – it’s also becoming increasingly apparent that I am not only a) often the heaviest person in the room, but b) always the most unkempt. Anyway, I’ll be doing some of the seating at On/Off this season, so if you see an orange-haired girl with a clipboard  (bleached denim by PRPS and  body language by Mounting Sense Of Inadequacy) do come over and chat, as I could do with the support.

Recieving the greatest Valentine’s gift of my short life: In the form of one of these pigeon-foot pendants by R/P Encore, which was sent to me as a press gift of sorts after attending their launch last LFW:

Reading everything every written by Hamilton Morris, that drug guy from the Vice website, and subsequently developing a creepy internet crush on him:

For whatever reason, since the latter half of my teenage years, I’ve been constantly attracted to Jewish men, with very few exceptions. Seriously. I don’t know if it all started in my childhood with my obsession with Schmedrick, the cartoon wizard from the Last Unicorn, but I’m a shameless Hora now, and there’s no going back. The other thing I am near-fetishistic about in a partner, incidentally, is language, grammar and spelling, to the point where if I’d had a pretty good date  (read: one night stand) with someone, but they texted me aterwards and invited me to a gig and said “There [sic] on at 9, c u then“, it would be well and truly over before it had begun. Imagine my delight, then, to read all the Hamilton Morris’ Pharmocopeia articles on Vice (possily one of the last good things going on there) and find out that, as well as being well-written and pretty intriguing, they were written by a seriously bangable 22-year-old Jewish guy, who is apparently trained in biochemistry and looks as though he weighs about six stone on a fat day. I actually made the extremely mature and classy move of adding him on facebook and then saying absolutely nothing, which, I’m sure you’ll agree, is a move that always ends in unequivocal success, especially when used on someone who lives in a different continent. What can I say? Don’t hate the player, hate the game. I’m just always going to be a winner, you guys.

Thinking of sacking this blog in and then starting afresh at a time when I’m not simultaneously trying to finish a degree, do an internship and decide what the fuck I’m going to do for a job in three months, for real: Self explainatory, I think. We shall see. Or, you know, whatever.

THE HAIR SHIRT

Hoo-boy! I have a meeting with someone at an East-end fashion PR firm tomorrow, and I’ve no idea what I’ll wear; given that my all-important art uni deadlines are looming in a week, I’ve spent most of my time recently wearing faded t-shirts, worn-out leggings and an extra layer of blubber, so God knows how I’ll make myself look presentable in time.

 One thing I have given a trial run this week is a leather t-shirt, which everyone is saying is the best costume for the day cira 2010, along with all the usual “romatic ruffled” safari-suit bullshit that’s usually kicking aound in Spring. I inherited a cap-sleeved, leather shift dress, two sizes too large and with a fucking great hole in the hem a couple of months ago, leaving me with no choice but to hack it off into a top – it might not be how Celine make theirs, but I’m a woman of limited means, and every dog deserves its day, or something. Unortunately, this dog didn’t look as clean and utilitarian in her leather t-shirt as a runway model and looked, in fact, not unlike the fictional character Bruno, or an extra from a Bruce LaBruce film called “Crocodile Done Me“, so it seems I’ll be skipping this season’s “it” item in favour of something else.

Having redyed my hair to a faded orange (I choose to think of its palor as being a bit grunge, like Kurt Cobain after a bottle of Head ‘N’ Shoulders, rather than the result of a terrible bleach job), I’m starting to feel an interest in khaki again, because of the way the two colours look together – kind of Christiane F, but with less smack and more carbs:

Beaten-up army jackets, especially, have been popping up everywhere on the streetstyle photos from Milan at the moment, albeit on men, so provided I can grow a sizeable beard before London Fashion Week, I’ll be right on trend. Also on my wishlist: this necklace from a brand called Does Not Equal, which you may have seen on the Di$count blog:

And maybe also this model, photographed for GQ by Tommy Ton:

I love the huge hat, I love the fag-smoke, I love the sheer, unadulterated beauty, I love it all. I’ll level with you – I’m not sure if this is a man or a woman, but much like Eddie Murphy, I operate on a strictly don’t ask, don’t tell basis, although unlike Eddie Murphy, I’d probably never fuck Scary Spice, so I like to think that I can still affect an air of moral superiority.  If anyone knows who s/he is, answers on a postcard in the shape of Princess Diana to the usual address. 

(If you want to keep the gender a secret, though, that’s cool. I just love surprises, don’t you?)

LONESOME COWBOYS

Boots, designed by a certain Mz. Iris Schieferstein by marrying a golden, cloven hoof and a pistol:

>=

 Discuss.

(My head feels a fuck of a lot like that guy’s right now, incidentally – I figured y’all’d be tough enough to cope with it, since it’s from a Cronenberg film and all. We’re all grown-ups here, right? – so I’m hard-pressed to make a more coherent update. Between you and me, I was so out of it on a combination of flu and lemsip earlier that I actually wrote “greatful” in an email. Don’t worry, though; if I find myself using “unbenounced” instead of “unbeknownst“, I’ll have someone take me around the back like Old Yeller. )

GRACE JONES LOVES TO BONE

Tell me, honestly – did you ever want to wear nerd-glasses, a patchwork chubby and men’s thermals before you saw this picture of Aurel Schmidt? Granted, she looks like a pimped-out, crayola-coloured Harry Potter in pouchy, greying smalls, but I ain’t mad at that. I’m also not mad at having got my hands on that old fox chubby from Cancer Research, thanks to a timely repayment of a debt from my boyfriend – it sucks lending money, but it’s always like a little birthday getting it back , no? – so it’s been a pretty good day for fur overall, I guess. I’m currently sitting here knee-deep in work, contacting publishers and distributors and talking to a friend who just moved to, of all places, Outer Mongolia, where he’s going to raves underground and taking drugs that they refer to only by their effects, like characters from Dances With Wolves. F cut off all of his huge, curly mane last night in a fit of pique and I hate how it shows off his skeevy moustache, but what can you do? A fool and his facial hair, I’ve heard, are rarely parted. 

Can you see why I don’t update this shit every day? I’m sorry to break it to you, but I’m fucking dull; maybe if I spent my time blowing people behind dumpsters or photographing my outfits, we’d be in business, but right now I’m stumped. I did make a tumblr today, though, so there’s that – have a look, if you’re into that sort of thing, which, let’s face it, you might be:

http://trashforce.tumblr.com

I swear, I’ll let you know as soon as anything interesting happens. Or, you know, even if it doesn’t. Whatever.

 (Also: I think everyone who has really blonde hair – the absolute fucking palest blonde, like the spun sugar that they make candyfloss from, or fibre-optic angel hair from a christmas tree – should take a leaf out of Nadia’s book and spray the tips a pastel colour. Don’t believe me? Go to http://www.discount.au.com right now and see for yourself. I’m not even going to wait here to see if you agree, because we both know I’m right. I pretty much always am.)

THRUST IN ME

Sometimes I have a still from this – of Nick Zedd as the woman, holding the “Suicide” book – as my userpicture on facebook. And unfortunately, or maybe fortunately,  people I’ve actually met sometimes think it’s me. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away, huh?