HUNGRY EYES

Earlier tonight, I told my boyfriend that I had to pitch some articles to Refinery29, with an emphasis on “London trends” or “new designers”, and I asked him what the fuck I should write about.

“I dunno, really. Ankle fashion, perhaps? You know, the way everyone was wearing boat shoes with pegged jeans for a while, and then everyone switched to jeans tucked into really shit boots. I mean, what’s that about?”

I’ll be cruel to be kind – I can’t really see myself launching my way into my editorial debut on a successful website using the dubious launchpad of “ankle fashion”. I mean for one thing, I’m fairly certain that’s just called “shoes”. Anyway, due to a dearth of inspiration, partly due to wearing myself out making this book and partly because I am storing up every last fucking sartorial bon mot I can think of in order to avoid having to resort to writing 300 words on trouser turn-ups, here’s the kind of lazy post that you’ve come to expect in times of crisis because hey! That’s what we bloggers do. You may have our 500 words on the new way to wear a handbag (seriously, Vogue thinks there is one), but you may never have our freedom.

The last three fashion items I bought, in no particular order (or maybe the order I bought them in, whatever), are as follows:

1. Slate grey, crinkled silk harem pants from Primark.  Rarely has any garment reminded me of an elephant simply on the hanger rather than on my body, but these are the exception to the rule; I couldn’t tell you if that was a good thing, but I bought them because they looked “directional” and “fashion forward”, and looked considerably more expensive than £13.95. This is probably a basis which I need to stop buying my clothes on, given that I myself am no Erin Wasson, but these seem to have worked out for me for now, so I guess I can chalk this one up to experience. I was intending to buy some grey sweatpants to wear with heels but, as evidenced by the fact that, to reiterate, I am no Erin Wasson, sportswear makes me extremely nervous and uneasy.
2. White creepers. These have been on the to-do list for some time, and what better time to buy more needlessly weird and completely office-inappropriate clothing than when I am unemployed and supposed to be looking for a new job? They look great, incidentally, but as a lifetime wearer of vertiginous heels, I have absolutely no idea how I am supposed to walk in them without thundering around like Frankenstein’s Monster. I don’t want to alienate any readers I have from countries outside the UK, but if those amongst you who do reside here could cast your mind back to the way that Wallace of “Wallace And Gromit” fame walks when he’s wearing the eponymous Wrong Trousers, you’ll get a good idea. Those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about can imagine the way that cats walk when it’s wet outside. I’m painting a sensual picture of myself here, I’m sure you’ll agree.
3. This hot pink silk blazer from Silence & Noise:

Which I love, and which makes me look like a Heather that sells cars.

I think the moral of this blog post is twofold. First, that I should really make my purchases fewer and more considered now that, you know, I’ve been made redundant. The second is that I clearly have a fuck of a lot of work to do before I can write those Refinery pitches. Sorry about that.

(I made a “twitter cloud” from my seldom-used twitter account today, and my keywords included “FUCK”, “FUCKING”, “TITS”, “SHIT”, “HAIR”, “SHOES” and “FAGS”. I think that could probably be put on my gravestone if it was worked into a haiku somehow, no?)

SATIN IS WAITIN’! SATAN IS WAITIN’!

In a twist of fate which seems more befitting of, say, Rachel from Friends than a normal human being, I returned home this morning after buying some black, skintight, nigh-on-vag-high boots in velvety suede, only to find that I had been sacked. I hadn’t been sacked as the result of any sexual misconduct at work, you understand – I may have seen Jethro Cave in and outside the pub on several occasions but that does not mean I molested him, your Honour, not least of all because I don’t really get him – but was simply one of many who had been laid off due to financial difficulties, due to only being part-time. Obviously, I immediately crumpled the reciept beyond repair to avoid the danger of returning the boots in a fit of good sense, because if anything can soothe the ego-bruising of being unemployed, it’s footwear which edges lasciviously close to one’s babymaker; at worst, the boots might at least give me an edge in securing other kinds of work in a hitherto unexplored avenue, or at the very least, an avenue not yet exploited for financial gain. Maybe there was a higher power at work when I forked over the money for these babies – “If it’s good enough for Mary Magdelene“, Christ might be whispering in my ear “it’s more than good enough for you.” – although if there is, the answer to the question “WWJD?” appears to have changed irrevocably over the last two millenia. 

If I were being completely reckless with my rapidly-evaporating riches, I’d probably also buy this:

Doesn’t that just make the blackened, be-pimpled heart of your inner teenage metal geek beat just a little bit faster?  Isn’t s/he throwing their stubby, tip-exed little fingers (from writing BAPHOMET on their school backpack, duh) up in a salute to Satan right this minute? Unlike the model, I’d probably pair it with leggings or something; I’ve not yet reached the stage where I’m comfortable turning up to social fucntions with a vibe that says “Hey, I have fat thighs, what’s shakin’?“, so much of getting dressed, for me, invariably involves an element of subterfuge and deciet. Still, I think if anything that lends an authentic air of teenage awkwardness to what is, let’s be honest, a beautifully fashioned $400 tribute to the poorly-silkscreened Cradle Of Filth hoodie we may or may not have been sick down during an underage visit to a local rock club. I mean, you may have done that. I didn’t. Whatever, I’m just making conversation. Asshole.

Anyway, it seems like it’s back to the drawing board, so I’m currently applying for part-time positions in P.R. and retail and hoping something sticks, so maybe now isn’t the time to regress back to my school years if I have any hope of being hired. I can always save that for the weekends.

Cider and black, anyone?

(For one of my last shifts at work last week, I turned up looking like a cartoon from Oz Magazine, with wild hair, motorcycle boots, some torn leggings and a poncho straight out of 1976, only to find that this garnered a greater number of tips and a much more friendly reaction from the male clientelle of the bar. What’s that about? I was so far the opposite of bringing my A game, but it worked out in my favour, so I can only assume that my usual lazy waist-up uniform of heavily-studded leather and a faded metal shirt isn’t doing it for the men of Shoreditch anymore. Maybe 1970s wet blanket is the newest “thing” in Shoreditch. Or maybe it’s some kind of Oedipal thing where I remind them of old pictures of their mothers. That’s kind of gross, actually. Forget I said that.

Pictures of the zine I’m working on soon.)

DAUL KIM

“Model Daul Kim was found dead in Paris this morning, her agents at Next confirm. “She was a top model and a great friend to all of us at Next. Please respect her family’s privacy at this time of sadness. We will all miss her very much,” they said in a statement. The cause of death remains unknown at this time, but a source tells the Cut the 20-year-old committed suicide. She will be missed.” – The Cut, 19/11/09

Let this be a lesson to those of us – including myself – who are shallow enough to ever catch themselves believing that they would be happy if only they were taller, thinner, better-dressed, wealthy or more beautiful.

SINGLE GIRL, MARRIED GIRL

I know this might be near-impossible to believe, but last week your irresponsible, foul-mouthed narrator ended up acting as a guardian to a thirteen year-old girl for a couple of hours; one minute, I had been accompanying my old flatmate (a man who, when we lived together off the Walworth Road, routinely went to the chippy in drag) to a Soho sex shop to buy rubber leggings,  trying to avoid looking at the “Itty Bitty Gang Bang” DVD playing on the television screen by examining a nearby buttplug at (ahem) length, and the next we were agreeing to chaperone the proprietress of Maison Bertaux’s sweet and probably  impressionable daughter on a costume-buying trip, under the understanding that the outfit would be age-appropriate and not prefixed by the word “slutty”. Unthinkably, I left Michael alone as guardian for twenty minutes or so before recieving the following emergency phone call:

He (hissing): “I’ve had a bit of bother since you left, I’m in the toilets in Pret A Manger.“

Me: (Fearing the worst): “Oh God. What kind of bother?“

“A…a malfunction.“

“What?“

“A wardrobe malunction! With the trousers! The rubber trousers!“

“Oh God, Michael.“

“They’ve…they’ve split. Pretty badly. While we were walking down Old Compton Street.“

“Please don’t tell me it was on the crotch.“

“(Static)”

“Oh GOD!“

“It gets worse. I was…well…my underwear…“

“Was it bad?”

“You could say that, I guess. I mean…I wasn’t really…wearing any. You know.“

In one fell swoop, both a pre-teen’s innocence and my brief but illustrious career as a babysitter may or may not have gone down the shitter. People say that you should never work with children or animals, but I’d add that you should also never allow children or animals to work with either myselfor my associates – at this point, I was pretty certain that a lifetime of eating bespoke pastries next to paintings by poncho-wearing comedian Noel Fielding was over before it had begun, along with my chance to finally see the mythically beautiful boy who apparently waits tables there, and who may or may not be related to a member of The Clash, depending on who you ask (judging from first-hand reports, incidentally, he’s so good-looking that, were you to fuck him, your vagina would somehow euthanise itself afterwards, nobly, like Hunter S. Thompson knowing his best years were over, although it isn’t always best to believe the hype).  I didn’t even know which part of this particular scandal to add the stupid, uneccessary “gate” suffix to  - “Rubbergate“? “Flashgate“? “Cockgate?” “Accidental-Entry-On-The-Sex-Offenders-Register-Gate“? – when relating it here, which is never a good fucking sign, is it?

The thing to take away from this story might be that you should never, under any circumstances, wear rubberwear around a minor, although I should hope that would be obvious anyway; it might also explain why, thanks to some latent trouser trauma, I suddenly sprang out of bed this week “feeling” wearing sweatpants with heels, something the current UK Vogue also appears to be thrusting towards us with some urgency in the December issue. I’ll admit that there are some cons – men are unlikely to find this A Good Look, for one, and the bunching nature of jogging bottoms ensures that you will definately be required to have A Good Arse from birth to pull it off – but you can’t put a price on ensuring that your crotch is well and truly covered at any given moment, although if you did, I’d say that I’d put the price of around £28 at American Apparel on the idea, because you need a good slim leg to avoid The Kevin Federline Effect. It’s something I’ve learned in recent weeks, and it’s something we can only pray that Lady Gaga learns as quickly as is humanly possible. Fingers (and legs) crossed.

(I have one or two interesting things in the pipeline, but I don’t want to jinx them, so this last paragraph is pretty moot this time around. Still to come in entries soon- t-shirts by Shrimpsauce, human hair jewellery by Bitching And Junkfood, yadda yadda and so-on. I asked a friend what I should write as a closer and he said “I’m listening to the Waynes World Soundtrack and I’m wearing a towel. Maybe there’s something in that?”, but I’m pretty sure there isn’t. Sorry about that.)

THE IDIOT

You guys, I am SO. SORRY. I know I promised to spend more time on you, but you have no idea how busy I’ve been lately – for one thing, I have to make a hardback zine and find a stockist for it some time in the next four weeks, as part of my third year work – and my internet has been giving me about ten good minutes a day for the last two weeks. The court will probably write this all off as an excuse, of course, and I’ll lose custody once and for all, but what can I say? If modern cinema and women’s magazines have taught me anything, it’s that we might pretend that we can have it all if we’re gainfully employed, but we’re really selfish, career-driven bitches who ruin their families lives. My only hope is that the affections of a good man can eventually show me that really, love is all I need. Love, and babies. And a cookbook. And a hairbrush to sing into.

Anyway, I’m just checking in to let you know that I’m alive. To get you through, here’s a picture of me rushing from one important task to another, as I almost always am. Note that I am barely breaking a sweat in my perilous Nina Ricci shoes. I “just be chillen”, if you will:

Oh no, fuck, that isn’t me. It’s Daphne effing Guiness. 

We can pretend, though, no?

(As well as working my well-proportioned ass off on a number of projects, I have also taken the time out to see Harmony Korine’s new film Trash Humpers at the London Film Festival, and if you’re planning on checking it out sometime, then I hope your mind is on the pill, because it’s about to get fucked:

I wouldn’t describe the overall experience as enjoyable – a brief synopsis descibes it as “A film unearthed from the buried landscape of the American nightmare [that] follows a small group of elderly Peeping Toms through the shadows and margins of an unfamiliar world“, and the title is pretty much self-explanatory – but if you want something that will stick in your mind for a few nights afterwards, it’s probably worth checking out. In other news, I hope Harmony reads the letter I sent him about collaborating on a sequel. It’s called Trashforce Humpers, and it follows a similar narrative arc to the original, but with a few subtle twists you won’t see coming. A major Hollywood actor is hotly tipped for the lead male role, although he faces strong competition from a young up-and-comer called “That one guy who works in that one bar that we went to in Shoreditch sometime that I think is really bangable“, so who can really say who’s going to come out on top? In order to find out, let’s just pray that Mr. Korine is receptive to film pitches that are written in ransom-style newsprint. The diagrams are a real treat!)

AND EVEN THOUGH I HAVE A KINK OR TWO IN BED, WHEN I’M WITH HIM IT’S JUST A DREAM

Earlier this week, I inflated fifty balloons without the aid of an air pump, but I’ve decided to avoid turning it into a joke about blowing, even though the gags (ha!) so clearly write themselves, because for once, I am not in the mood. Not tonight, Blogsephine, etc, etc. I am WORN. OUT, and I mean that intoned in the most emphatic, Rachael-Zoe-style cadence you can imagine.

I’d be hard-pressed to describe to you my lowest ebb of the last four weeks, for instance (and believe me, there have been highs and lows, both chemically and non-chemically speaking), but if I had to choose, I’d probably go with the moment last night when, as I was waiting at the bus stop on the Walworth Road in tears, some spotty cunt in tracksuit bottoms, reeking of beer and cheap cologne, swaggered by and hollered “Ratface!” directly into my kohl-drizzled fizzog. Asshole though he may have been, I can see his point; I am a bit of a neurotic fucking wreckage lately, and it’s probably starting to emanate from me like a bad smell.

A few days ago, I had all my hair cut off , like a woman who had just gone through a particularly bad breakup, and I’d convinced myself that it would make me into some kind of zen, new-age druidess who was able to cope with anything life chose to throw at her without batting a black-greasepaint eyelid – actually, the chop had only two outcomes:

1. Leaving my cheeks looking ever more like those of a horse sucking on a mint humbug, hence, presumably, “Ratface!“
2. Allowing me to create the sheer, unadulterated volume needed to execute the above hair-yabba-dabba-do from Jeremy Scott S/S10 with nothing more than hairspray, a paddle brush, a barey-functioning 1990s crimper and a prayer.

Truly, the Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away, no? I can’t say that I’ve felt any more in control since I got rid of what I will fondly call The Iron Curtain, but who really does in these situations? I bet even Alexa bloody Cheung had a stupid reason for cutting her hair short so famously, the most notable difference between our situations being that, rather than being feted by the style press on both sides of the Atlantic, I’ve been heckled in the street by hoodies. And, God willing, I’ve never fucked a Monkey, Arctic or otherwise.

In addition to this, I’ve become obsessed with the idea of turning my hair navy blue, for some reason, adding yet more weight to the idea that I am too indecisive and immature to go more than about eight weeks without getting bored with my own appearance, thankyou mother. Thank fuck I haven’t got a tattoo yet, because I’d be forking out for laser removal hand over bloody fist, if this hair bollocks is anything to go by. In all seriousness:

I hate to sound like a fashion fag (Kidding! I love to! I wouldn’t say things like “a narrow trouser” otherwise), but doesn’t this seem very “now” to you? Answers on the back of a picture of KT Shillingford’s ombre hairstyle to the usual address.

(Things which you are welcome to buy for me after perusing the S/S10 shows; all of Rodarte’s collection, all of Demeulemeester’s collection, Josh Beech, the new Jeremy Scott X Longchamp tote, the sunglasses from Giles, a party dress from BCBG, and a wig made from Daphne Guiness’ hair.

Hello again, by the way. ‘Sup?)

YOU MAKE NO SENSE

 

Things have been a little hectic here lately, y’all, and Trashforce has been neglected as a result. I swear, I’ll be back soon with some pictoral proof of just how many young men I got to see in their underwear this fashion week. In a professional capacity, of course.

(Assuming you haven’t been taken away by child protective services by then, that is.)

SOMETIMES I WISH I HAD A GUN

Okay, you know what?

I am done with Wang. Seriously, you guys. I am going to stop being hella into Wang – “feeling Wang hard”, if you will – for an entire season, at least. I don’t know if there’s a word for someone who is so into Wang that they’re into the opposite, but that person is me right now (I tried googling it, but for some reason I kept getting pictures of Lindsay Lohan. How weird is that?). I have only myself to blame, of course; I’ve been spoiled by some truly fantastic Wang for a couple of years now, so I guess I always assumed I’d keep coming back for more, but this has been a real fucking wakeup call. It was bound to happen sooner or later. Reader, I’ve been slapped around the face with some underwhelming Wang, and it stings. In my eyes.

I’m not much into the idea of wearing a nappy for fashion’s sake, be it quilted satin or otherwise, and chiffon trousers, though maybe suited to an editorial, are hardly breaking new ground. I’m also not leaping at the chance to wear greying y-fronts as outerwear, even if I am supposed to look like a slutty cheerleader in her jock boyfriend’s underpants, or whatever kind of football fantasy is supposed to be going on here. Maybe it’ll be one of those collections that’s going to grow on me over time, but for now, it’s doing precious little other than providing me with the usual biannual excuse to make cock puns with gay abandon. The thing which hurt most of all, however, was that the Wang I like best this season:

Looked like it belonged on Lady Gaga. And I mean, come on. There’s no possible way you can make a good dick joke about someone who’s gone to the trouble of prefixing their name with the word “Lady”.

…is there?

JOHNNY, ARE YOU QUEER?

It’s that time of year again, little buddy – the time when everyone gets their invitations to the shows at London Fashion Week and I try not to hiss with jealousy, mumbling something about how it’s the parties that really matter, you pussy, because I’m too rock-and-roll and free-spirited to waste my time with trivial shit like sitting in the twelfth row and swooping in to steal the freebies from underneath Pixie Gelfdof’s seat on the way out.  I can’t be pissing away my valuable drinking time looking at beautiful people stomping up and down in things I’m never going to be able to afford, or peering into the middle-distance and trying to figure out if that’s really Jethro Cave, or if it’s a really tall girl with an undercut and a gumby earring – I’m an important person, and like all important people, I get my fashion news secondhand via Style.com or from the pages of Vogue. Other things which I do during fashion week as a result of being a “big deal” include home-dyeing my hair, spending an hour deciding whether my shoes make me look fat, and planning which party will have the most free alcohol left by the time I leave the house, in case you were wondering. It’s not easy to be me, but I’m trying my hardest, y’all. 

If, however, I were the sort of person who got invited to these things and, if we can stretch the boundaries of realism a little further, I was somehow able to attend the shows in New York, my eye would definately have been caught by this dress from BCBG today:

I know it’s hardly breaking new ground (the sheer panels, pattern and bandage style aren’t a million miles away from both old season Balmain and Balenciaga in places), but sometimes looking fuckable wins out over innovation. Say what you like about Gareth Pugh – I think he’s a genius, for the record, and I still mentally clutch my pearls every time I pass him on the street even though I know he’s lived here forever, because I’m a hick at heart – but you can’t go to a Dress To Get Screwed party in a vinyl balloon dog costume, unless you’re a very specific kind of pervert and it has some very unusual cutouts. The sheer panels, for once, aren’t positioned in such a way as to force the wearer to go commando, which could go in either the positive or the negative column depending on how you look at it. And I’m a sucker for a really vibrant purple. Or, even better, I could opt for this insane look designed by Nadia of The Foxy Man, which is essentially footwear continued all the way up to the neck and turned up to eleven:

Either would look great with my slippers while I’m enjoying fashion week from the comfort of my own home, don’tchafink?

(Bet you wish you could wear uggs in the front row, Mz. Wintour. Burn.)

IT’S 1969 OKAY, ALL ACROSS THE USA

Jerry Hall is famous for saying that at some stage, a woman has to choose between her face and her ass. For me, that stage came around the age of about sixteen, where I realised that in order to have a tiny, modelesque rump, I was required by nature to look like the Cryptkeeper in a black wig from the neck up; during one of my thinner months, I was mistaken for a drag queen in a nightclub, despite being barely five foot four, and although my default user picture on facebook is usually Nick Zedd dressed as a woman and reading a book about suicide, sometimes I change it because I’m never quite sure if people who’ve only met me once or twice actually think it might be me. Biology’s a fucker, ain’t it?  Even now that I’ve gone soft and useless, I still noticed that I looked superimposed on the nightbus security footage yesterday, like someone had scribbled a cartoon of Siouxsie Sioux on the telescreen in pen. I might be happy to let my face get back to being as bony as possible, however, if I looked like Jamie Bochert. She’s so fucking creepy, dug-up, Patti Smith sexy that it almost makes me want to forego my beloved carbohydrates  (even beer and pizza, either of which I could possibly be some kind of sponsored spokeswoman for, if required)  and start getting mistaken for a man again; given that she too looks a bit like a horse, it might not even be an impossible dream, although I can never hope to gain the requisite six or seven inches of height without the aid of some serious platforms.  I’m not saying I’d be interested in screwing Michael Pitt, although I know a few people who would, but there’s something to be said for a woman who can make androgyny look twice as sexy as being tanned, blonde and chesty. The difference between her looking equine and my having a long, hollow face, unfortunately, is tantamount to the difference between a thoroughbred and a Thelwell pony respectively, and is also the thing which prevents me from pulling off “off-duty model” style with aplomb,  or being able to look like Marilyn Manson and still induce a hard-on:

Or perhaps that’s just me.

Maybe one day, scientists will perfect that height-enhancement surgery that people go on dodgy holidays for, and I can go out to Bangkok to have my femurs smashed and repositioned, or whatever insane bullshit it is they do to desperate people like me – until then, I’m condemned to roam the earth on my belly, like the snake in the garden of Eden. Figures. If only for the number of people I’ve made feel ashamed by their nakedness.

(I’m writing this sitting on a mouldering chair and listening to the Stooges’ self-titled LP on repeat at an undisclosed location – believe me, if I told you I’d have to kill you, and I hate to get blood on my shoes – trying desperately to decide what to wear tonight, because that’s the kind of earth-shattering stuff that I spend my time thinking about. Believe me, if you thought this entry was boring, you should have seen the last three drafts I made, all of which ended with me typing “BLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH” and then holding down the H key for another couple of hundred characters. Either way, you should know that by the time you read this, two of my housemates, who are currently on acid, will have “either had sex or killed each other“, and we’re taking bets on which. Sort of like a Swedish lesbian cockfight. So there’s a bit of excitement for you.)