What Would Madonna Do?

New Years Resoloution 1: Feb 1st. (Blog More)

After 9 days…which felt like 9 leap years…worth of library time, pretending to revise for my honestly, very difficult and important, big-girl third-year fashion school exams
(Q1: define ‘a skirt’. Q2: draw and colour your favourite skirt…etc, etc)
it feels really fucking great to eventually make yourself feel really fucking horrendous by ruining your body, soul and mind with alcohol, dancing and stomping around in second hand Doc Martens.

Which are juuuuuust a tiiiiiiiny bit too small for you and render you a toxic, babbling cripple for the next few days.





Fun was had in an institute for the deaf, in an ex Belgian embassy and in various hip hop happenin’ spots around the classy, cosmopolitan, almost continental streets of Fallowfield.







The drizzle on the ice cream of indulgent weekend joy was definitely the honey rum that I ‘forced down’ on Sunday evening post-roast. All the way from ‘the island of doom’, El Hierro.

All the carbs before bargs (then we'll bake some more later...and get some red too while we're at it)

Weeee he hell how time flies when you're having fun.
Since deciding to run away from the pressures of third year, back to morocco, to live peacefully as a mountain goat hearder, life has never been so sweet.
I havent had but a passing thought about my blog, or any internet access really, except when I set my pretties, the goats, to mug iphones off passing tourists.

Nah, NOT REALLY! ha. ha.
Ive just been sitting, in classic heritage me style, on my country-fair-prize-piggish posterior, being too boozebrained and sugar-highed to register the niggling reminder at the back of my brain to update...for more months than ever before. Not that i'm apologising to anyone, though, as it would be about as pointless as a lady gaga concert in an empty cave (if a gaga falls in the woods and there is no one around to hear her....etc)

The term and festive reward season have, however, been of quite some note.
Despite still residing in outer morden-golia, the arsepit of London, things have been pretty glitzy, .
New Year's brat pack escapades were, oh so completely RAD, dude. A definite fine and sophisticated personal moment being me marching up to the dj and showing my somewhat modest ('fashionable') breast in the face of the dj, causing a momentary loss of concentration in the booth and plunging the pub into a couple of seconds of party silence, the reason for the whole boobless episode being simply for the reason of showing off my tears for fears badge. Because, despite his ill concealed 'bafflement', i knew he really, really was simply amazed by it.
Here's a picture of TFF, really ringing home the fact that some 80's fashion really, really will never, ever be vintagey-kool ever again.

Thank fuck I hadn't spent my entire paycheck inside the shop I earn it, though, as that night...turned to day....turned to night...turned to day, again, was, um, rather fucking expensive. DM's for ten bob though? Dior blazer a score and ten? DM if i dio, mate.



Roses are brown and wrapped in cool foil wrappers, parma violets are...violet, we all love sweets. This much is bloody gospel. However, sometimes, hidden away like the freaks of nature that they are, baking fetishits cluster to discuss at considerable length, the merits and demerits of the best ways to soften butter, best ways to grind an almond, and the frightful cost of icing sugar in this modern hell we live in, whilst shoving baked goods in their mouths. As an uncercover mole, I burrowed into their sick, seedy, sweet scented world for three hours last saturday, to be taught how to produce macaroons, without the aid of voodoo and fairy dusts. Results were suprisingly light, fluffy, delicious, smooth and marvellous, despite me having had far too much wine and too little sleep the night before, and feeling and looking the opposite of all these attributes.

With all this day partying, moneyspending, languishing and cake eating, just call me Cherie Craptoinette.

WHOOOO willBUYYY this WANDERful MORningggg?

Good Morn, Noon, or Eventide dear loyal band of blog browsers. As in the classical tradition, approximately five centauries have elapsed, give or take, since my last sprawling blog post. May I blame the tardiness on my extended period of living (3 weeks definitely counts as living) in Morocco…its pretty bloody difficult to lift your hand to write, hold a pen without it sweatily flowing out of your fingers, or even, say, reach for your lighter that happens to be just out of bingo wing’s reach whilst it’s approximately 55 degrees and your entire life has turned into an exercise in docility, powered by a diet of tagine, shitty cigarettes and sweet mint tea.



Morocco- as insane and colourful and illogical and long and short and wonderful as a dream.

Frequently, due to sleep and air condeprevation, sadly, coupled with the oh just DARLING, partydontstoptill5am Moroccan weddings that occurred frequently just next door, crazy, hallucinatory dreams were often suffered by urz truliez, frequently resulting in bouts of insomniac madness, leaving me a burka’s breadth from kicking an orphan or two down a flight of stairs (or two).

Prior to gadding about with a bunch of a-rabs, I have been mudding about at Gla-rabs:




And swaying wildly about at parklife with k-dabs
(authors note: I have completely made up the phrase ‘k-dabs’ and have honestly, officer, no Idea what one is, or even if such a preposterous sounding thing as a k-dab actually exists. Moi? Neighhh.)




Back in Londonsville, with nothing to declare except a room now full of ludicrously miss matched genuine Moroccan items, I merrily snap on my shiny work shoes and dart, bambi like (bambi with bleeding heels caused by shiny work shoes) off to work, to flog ate-too-many-nerds-gotta-vomit coloured Mulberry hand bags to ungrateful bitches and their poor, clueless boyfriends, whom will probably be hit with said bags by said bitches for buying them the wrong shade or size of tacky, mass produced bullcrap.








Gimme some Givench or Celine or A-Wang any day of the week. Every day of the week. Eight days a week. Fold me up inside one and I will live inside it happily for every day for the rest of my life.

Milliseconds of free time however forsooth, have allowed me both to imbibe a couple of local cultural offerings, one being the amazing regailations of Live Canon, randomly spouting live Shakespeare sonnets randomly on the street to the joy of yuppies passing by…



…and the ethereal (ethereality sponsored by Jack Daniels and Mr Whippy) grace of Peggy Sue and the Pirates live in Northampton Square.

Until Next time,
Shuukran.

'turn up for the books' (or, fuck off to the library)

After vomming into my straw hat (i had to throw it away) and a paul on the road to damascus-style awakening at the crack of midday on this, the gloomiest Sunday on record (measuring a pane shaking 8.7 on the fuck-this scale), some part deep inside my black black heart dragged me back to the unsuprisingly quiet Johnny Rylands library, where now I sit with a cut + paste massacre of dead magazines, gold rope and little bitty bits of paper that im never gonna be able to pick up.
I am, perhaps, happiest when I am moodboarding and listening to bright eyes.



The guy sitting opposite me on the computers keeps putting his shaking head in his hands and mouthing the word NO over and over again though. And im pretty sure he just called his mate a 'goon-bag' (what the hell is a goon bag, its def not on urbandictionary.com, i just checked. answers on a postcard plz) . I hope he's gonna be ok.

Subsequent to someone, whom shall not be named for health and security reasons, offhandedly mentioning that they might have maybe accidentily one time glanced with one eye open at my blog (HELLO) i have decided to ressurect it...again...from it's wasting away state and plumpen it up like a little spring lamb, fluffchick, or piglet.





Hurray for spring, hurrah for seasonal sweets, hurrah for Yellow, Pink, Green and White. The colours, not the characters in resevoir dogs. Although, whilst im on the subject, three cheers for Pink, why the hell not. So much time for that man.




Anyhoo, since the last time i typed anything into this godforsaken thing, Winterval has blown and past without any major mishaps or events, apart from Rache giving herself a ginormous second degree burn with a pot noodle and except for my minibreak to ROMA.
So good.
Just like living in one of those 'education MADE FUN' pop-up history books, except the monuments and stuff dont go all sticky and rippy-outy when you eat outstanding, italianny gelaticious icecream whilst youre looking through them.




Having miraculously conned some fools into giving me a job as a perfume spritzychick at Selfridges up here, my nose is like a finely tuned violin to the bow of world scent. I can smell Flowerbomb from 50 paces, which will obviously turn in handy...never?




Weapon of mass sniff-struction. Oh fucking hell that joke didnt work at all did it...fuck. Someone NEEDS to buy me some tabacco vanille though.

Apart from getting a cheeky bit of muscular dystrophy from sitting on my bum all day revising for my bladdy exams, thingz continue swimmingly. In next week's episode...DMFR's girl tour to Paris to meet the fashion folk over there. Considering our lecture earlier in the week involved a quick brief of what to do if you are 'forcibly removed from a building...they're french...it happens often', promises to be, as the parisians might say 'Une Belter'.
So expect me to blog about it...ooh...sometime in 2014?
Until next time folks
Spritzy Spritzy.

Gownedhog day

Sometimes, history repeats itself, and in recent weeks, various occurances in levels of interest varying from 'mild eyebrow raise' to 'completely boring please die' have bubbled up around me, rendering my life rather like a B-version of 'Groundhog Day' except obviously less cool and containing less Bill Murray.

1. Got job back at Selfridges. Sell shit/gawp at celebrities/run at 100mph round corner for cigarettes when proffessing to be 'just popping to the loo'/steal free sample chocolates. Hustle hustle hustle... trying to save some penies to pay my rent and creditors, might have to just quit uni and do another 5 zillion years of 12 hour shifts just to afford these things thoughhhhh....




2. Met Beth Ditto again. Some calorie-addled delusionist has hired her to 'inspire' a new range for Evans which launched at Self's on Friday. Love how a smalltown texas gal like her is seeminly franchising herself pound by fleshy pound. Also quite like this dress she designed. I imagine she sits in a large velvet throne at night counting her money, cackling between bites with a big mac in one hand and whopper in the other. Whoever knew lard could be so lucrative. ILU BETH <3.




3. Last but by no means least, aNOTHER awkward run-in with Henry stupid Holland. Step off the tube at old street station in the lovely dappled polloutiony sunset wearing my loveworn HH jumpsuit, spotting actual Henry Holland (not just the debenhams version, as my suit is) walking in opposite direction. My god, that man is tanned.
Panic.
Continue walking, spotting H giving a quizzical look to said jsuit, which has a huge rip down one of the seams (and has once had a lighter taken to it when lizzy tried to set me on fire...unsuccessfully)
Decide on giving old Hen a casual smiley nod, whilst pointing to outfit and cheekily (i imagined, though probably sounded weirdly stalkerish, like some heartbroken slag who wears only her boyfriends old teeshirt 24/7 because it still smells like his BO) quipping 'wearing your playsuit mate', receiving a tanned...if smiles CAN be tanned...smile and double thumbs up.

So, i think, maybe i am one step closer to my dream of our blossoming friendship as prophecised a couple of blog posts ago. Or one step closer three steps back because it will be breaking the outlines of a restraining order.
The only thing i do know, that cuts like a knife into my brain tendons, is that it wasnt a playsuit. it was a fucking jumpsuit. a fucking jumpsuit cherry.
The man is in the fashion industry, clearly he knows the difference and CLEARLY thinks you do not, and that you are therefore a stupid nonothing nogood tart.




Back to square one then.

Memento Mori

Rather like a well tended country churchyard, although my summer has been, on outward viewing, relaxing...breezy...floral...inoffensive even, much as I loathe to admit, it has essentially been pretty dead.

The infrequency of my recent blog posts also has been a background beat in my brain for quite some time now too.

Tap tap tapping away at my lazy skull sounding not unlike the faint tapping coming up from the ground from the unlucky folks who have been buried alive in said hypothetical graveyard. But enough with the morbid metaphor! On to the chit chat about ...relatively cool stuff!

Festivals have been a bit of a recerrant love affair studding this summer, and to round things off proper, i have just returned from Pukkelpop, Kiewet, Belgium, possibly the best festival ever given to humankind for these reasons three:

1. Mindblowingly boast-tastic lineup

2. Cheap smokes

3. Amazing chocolate.

I honestly havent just got back from a Bridget Jones fan convention (although if anyone knows of one in existance please contact me asap)

but a lovely box of lucky strike cigs, even inside the festival would set me back but a mere daily 3 euros, and, along with all the rather choice dutch weed we were kindly donated by charitable euro-cousins, I pretty much had a smoking device sticking out both my nostrils and ears as well as my mouth at all times. Hu-zzah.

Also we discovered...joy.

Forget 'suprises'. Who wants the risk of a suprise when you can have 100 percent guarunteed JOY? Half an egg's worth of melty kinder chocolate, with little bueno-filled truffles nestled inside.

They even give you a little spoon to eat it with inside, AND you still get the toy. U know it makes sense.

Oh and heres an incomplete list of bands and arteeeses ive seen over the past month or sa:

1. the temper trap

2. kasabian

3. ray davies

4. magnetic man

5. skream/benga

6. Placebo

7. Iron Maiden

8. Soulwax

9. Blink 182

10. Limp Bizkit (no really)

11. Bloody Beetroots

12. Seasick Steve

13. Steve Aoki

14. Benny Benassi

15. Yeasayer

16. Bad Religion

17. Major Lazer

18. Ellie Goulding

19. 2manydjs

20. prodigy

21. Queens of the Stone age

22. The fall

23. Atlas Sound

24. Caribou

25. Sound of stereoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooook theres steam coming off my keyboard now.

Boomtown. xxxxx