Easter ills.

Just when I thought I was hopping back on the blogging band wagon, I've gone and caught the boyfriend's flu and lost all hearing in my right ear, as happened some weeks ago. This has therefore relegated me to bed for the majority of the bank holiday weekend and means that I've spent most of the four day weekend unable to stare at my computer screen as it makes me feel even worse and ergo, undone all of my blogging intentions.

Of course, now that it's Monday night and I have work tomorrow, I'll wake up at 8am and feel fine. Great. And before you say it must be so nice to spend the time lying in bed, I do not call scraping all of the skin off the tip of my nose, having watery eyes and constant sneezing/sweating/general grossness relaxing.

Humph.

Injury time

Originally, I had planned to post all about the First RE:Fashion Awards that I attended this evening. Unfortunately, just about an hour before I left work for said awards, I was leaving the loos when an incoming person slammed in really hard as I reached for the handle and slammed a metal bar into my hand. The second knuckle on my left hand took the brunt of the force and as it's now double it's natural size, I'm typing one-handed. Therefore you'll have to wait until the swelling and pain subside for photos and gossip.

Sleep well, I'm off to dig out some Neurofen.

Annoyed face

A few weeks ago, I noticed that my two favourite pairs of skinny jeans that I virtually live in had begun to split at the seams. Considering that I alternated between these two pairs day in, day out for almost four years, they've done pretty well. One pair is blue and one is grey. The blue were simply wearing through but the greys (the oldest of the two) were starting to split along a seam but being the resourceful soul that I am, I grabbed a needle and thread and with a bit of effort, managed to stitch them up enough that you wouldn't know.

At the beginning of the week, I reluctantly had to put them in the washing machine after I dropped balsamic vinegar down one leg. I'd like to take this opportunity to point out that I am not gross, I was merely concerned in regard to their fragile state.

Sure enough, last night as I peeled them off after another day of wear, I noticed that although my handy work had held up, two new holes had emerged in the fabric and they're not the kind that can easily be stitched as they're not on the seam. I'm going to need to do some serious mending if I want to wear them again without flashing my pants to all and sundry.

Most annoyingly, Topshop, where both pairs are from, tweak the cut and style every season so they're never the same. I tried some on the other week as a just in case measure to no joy. So now, I begin the lengthy journey of once again trying to find jeans I love and as any woman will attest, this is no easy task.

ARGH.

Repent, REPENT!

Ladies and gentlemen, the end is nigh. Expect the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse to come thundering past your house and toads to start falling from the sky because Paris Hilton is the new cover girl for Nylon.

First, Peaches Geldof gets a job there and now, the queen of the vacuous has made it onto the cover. That's it - Nylon, it's over.

And it's not me, it's you.

Check out more photos at fashionista.com

LFW: Tuesday

Apologies for the lack of post tonight but some fucker stole my wallet earlier this evening and my mind is currently focused on that. Reports to come later:

Ashley Isham
Eley Kishimoto
Amanda Wakeley

..and a bunch of parties.

AWOL, again.

I'm really annoyed. A while ago, my silver sandals disappeared two weeks after I had re-discovered them and put them in a supposedly safe place. This week, it's the turn of my yellow sunglasses. We're all heading off to Truck Fest* and they're key to my well being.

They're a rare breed in that they don't squeeze my head and give me brain ache when I wear them for too long, unlike the majority of my other sunglasses. They are awesome 80s style plastic aviators and I know I could go buy another pair somewhere like Topshop but it won't be the same and I know that the second I do, the AWOL ones will appear.

I am therefore determined to hunt through every handbag that I've worn in the last two months in order to find them. I will not give up, as I have had to do with the sandals. I will find this missing piece from the puzzle of my wardrobe, even if it takes the rest of the week.

Speaking of festival related activities, I was really impressed when I nipped into the big Tesco near Ikea (where I'd been to buy a crate of delicious Kopparberg) and found myself walking out with a new sleeping bag, inflatable camping mattress and a bubble gun amongst other purchases, all for £30. I was tempted to buy a new tent but common sense won out on that one. At least this year we won't have giant boulders digging into our spines.

*NB: truck fest has nothing to do with trucks, cars or any other vehicular activity.

Minor Grievance #372

So, my sunny mood could only last so long and appropriately enough disappeared as soon as the actual sun did and the skies opened up. One thing I will never understand is why people in London insist on carrying giant umbrellas in town. I could forgive it if there were four people jammed underneath it but when there's one very smug banker under an umbrella with a diameter of 2 metres, I begin to see red.

These tossers take up the entire pavement as they stroll slowly along while everyone has to veer sharply out of their way for fear of having an eye poked out by a spoke and ends up in six inches of flooded gutter water.

And then, they get on the tube and insist on carrying the thing under their arm with the sharp pointy metal capped bit sticking out a foot behind them. And of course, they forget about this potential weapon and either swing round and inevitably clock you square in the face (particularly if you're short like me) or pump it with great vigour as they walk, causing those behind them to do a dodging dance the entire way.

Walking to and from various stations today, I was almost stabbed six times, got smacked in the shoulder and then got stuck behind a banking moron who was braying into his crackberry about his lovely weekend in the Cotswolds while twirling his navy and maroon golfing umbrella in his hand, spraying all those around him with even more rain water. But he was dry, so that's okay.

People, if you live in a city, buy a small folding umbrella. Not only will you no longer have the threat of litigation that knocking someone's front teeth out brings looming over you; you will also cease to be a twat in my eyes.

What not to do in publishing

I am a pedant for the english language. I can't help it. Seeing punctuation and grammar being abused or words - especially the simple ones - misspelt through sheer laziness really winds me up. You can therefore probably imagine that I spend a lot of my online time in a state of frustration when I see text speak on myspace or facebooks. Really, there is no need. Even those too lazy to bother learning now have access to spellchecks on pretty much every computer so they really have no excuse left.

While I understand that the internet is no place to play Language Police, you would think that maybe, just maybe online magazines would be of a higher standard than your average 14 year old's myspace written in StIcKy CaPs. The knowledge that you are a legitimate publication would surely push you to check your vitals before you hit publish? Apparently not.

A new magazine, Flirt is now firmly at the top of my Most Wanted for Abuse of the English Language. Apart from attempting to be an even lower rent mens' mag than Nuts or Zoo (yes, it is possible), it has more appalling spelling, grammar and punctuation errors than a illiterate 10 year old's essay. I was pointed in it's direction after a topic on Digital Spy and could not quite believe the sloppy work. Note to it's editor: You are only highlighting your crappy content (Billi from Big Brother? Oh Dear) with your inability to string a sentence together coherently.

I know some of you out there will think me bitchy and decry me for slagging off what is essentially still a new magazine that is unsteady on it's feet and still looking for better content. Well, if a magazine starts out poorly, how will it keep its' readers and maybe gain some, adding better advertisers and start generating money if it's editor cannot even write properly? In short, it won't. Instead, it will die a slow and pitiful death, losing someone along the way a lot of money and another losing their dream.

Hell hath no fury...

So, you may've noticed that I skirted around one of the biggest news topics last week, the death of Heath Ledger. One reason I won't be speculating on what happened is that I think that the incident and Ledger's life have been dissected, gossiped about and whipped up into a frenzy of tabloid breast-beating. I therefore, will not be heaping my thoughts on the matter onto the mountain of opinion already out there, except to say that it's very sad.

One of the stories to piggyback off Ledger's passing is, of course, the rearing of the Westboro Baptist church movement, Godhatesfags.com*, who intended to picket his funeral in order to gain a little more notoriety. WBC are those charming individuals who have previously been known to picket military funerals of US Soldiers who have served in Iraq and Afgahnistain, as seen on Louis Theroux's great documentary. They believe that events such as the war, 9/11 and the London Tube bombings are punishments festooned upon the world for the acceptance of homosexuality by a vengeful God. Ergo, Ledger's family deserve to have their goodbyes tainted by some inbred morons because he played a gay cowboy. I've uploaded their press release below (originally posted on HolyMoly!:



As you can see, their number is clearly printed at the top of the image. Whilst I should probably not endorse crank calling, I'm not saying don't. The number may've already been disconnected but it's still worth a shot. And in case for any reason you can't read it, it's 785-273-0325. Holler at a redneck, y'all!

---

* - I have deliberately not given this site a link. I must concede that in writing about this topic, I am on some small level giving publicity to those who I abhore for their stupidity and small-mindedness. But I will not make it any easier for someone to click through to their site.

Quarantined

I have been ill since Christmas Eve. There is nothing that blows in quite the same way as being ill the one time of year that its considered publicly acceptable - nay, TRADITION - to stuff one's face, get pissed and pass out on the sofa by 3pm in front of a crap film for a few days running, depending on how hardcore you are.

I woke up on Christmas Eve feeling a little woozy and chilly but I figured I'd just picked up a cold. As the day went on, it got a little stronger but I still went and did a little shopping, picked up some flu drugs and cough syrup, figuring I'd be fine. Once the drugs had kicked in, I felt fine enough to get through the evening, eating absurd amounts, mixing drinks and other activities that generally count as a good time.

But Christmas Day? Oooh, Christmas Day. Hell hath no fury like head flu ignored. And so I have stayed ever since, making a brief appearance to eat lunch before passing out again in my bed. It blows. I was meant to go down and stay with my boyfriend's family for a few days today; no longer. I really wanted to go, more so now that I've been trapped in my room for three days.

Unfortunately, the cough syrup I've been taking has not agreed with me, I still have a loud and throaty cough that can be heard for miles, no appetite or hearing. Ever since I was little, I've had issues with my ears, nose and throat. One of the ongoing issues is that whenever I get flu, my hearing goes to the point where I can barely hear anything. Annoyingly, it takes about a week for it to come back fully so for a few days, it's like I'm swimming underwater constantly.

Okay, I agree that me bitching about being ill can hardly be considered entertaining or even vaguely interesting but it's not like there's anything good on TV. Hopefully, I'll be better tomorrow then I can venture out, have a minor adventure and come back here with it. Or maybe not. We'll see.

'The Girl Upstairs'

Okay, mini rant time. As an intern, I understand that there will be times where I am treated like shit. However, what I do expect is to be referred to by name when this happens. Then, at least I know that the person treating me like shit has done so with enough reason.

However, there is one person in my office who steadfastly refuses to learn my name, even when calling me about an email I sent round the office enquiring about a work related matter. The email had my name at the bottom and still this person insists on not bothering. When instructing a fellow colleague to do something she should've done in the first place, she then deligated that said colleague should pass on a message to me, dictating what I should do. Again, no name reference. Instead, I was referred to as 'The Girl Upstairs'. Well, you know what? This person can suck it as far as I'm concerned.

I don't work for you.
I don't work for your department.
And I certainly do not work for someone who (despite working in the same office as me for several months) cannot be bothered to refer to me by name because they consider themselves too superior to bother even finding it out or reading it off a computer screen.

Blow. Me.

Blargh. Argh. And more X-Factor.

I'm not entirely sure why but tonight for the first time in a year, I decided to update my myspace page. I haven't touched it in a very long time but I guess as I fall into a foul mood caused by the general ruins of everything else around me (ooh dramatic), I figure the only thing I can control is my damn myspace. How pathetic, you must be thinking. I am too. I should be preparing for tomorrow but I find myself in a procrastinatory coma where I can't think about the things I should be doing instead of wasting time.

But at least I'm actually motivated to blog. However, I will not be exploiting my current state of mind for that kind of entertainment. Besides, there is nothing in particular that has put me in this mood, it's just a general contempt that will undoubtedly lift shortly. On with the show.

As you've undoubtedly noticed if you read, listen to or watching anything with vaguely newsworthy substance, X-Gate carries on with 700 people now having lodged official complaints with Ofcom. At that level of complaint, they'll be obliged to investigate and waste lots of money only to tell us that there is no scandal. And then there'll be cries of a cover up.

My mother actually added her own thoughts on the matter today. She too read Chart Throb and like me, has a streak of cynicism about her now when it comes to the show. As she pointed out, there is the possibility that this is all a rig in order for Simon Cowell to make even more money out of the shows. Leon will get a £1 million record contract but Rhydian has already allegedly signed with Simon Cowell and SonyBMG. Simon can milk two separate audiences from one show. Hurrah!

Aging is bringing out my cynicism nicely. I promise I will stop blogging about X-Factor too. It's getting unhealthy. I should start conserving my energies for the new Big Brother.

What. The...? Aftermath

After my unexpected rant about X-Factor last night, I was not surprised today to discover that there are a lot of other sceptics out there. Whereas once upon a time a public outcry over a reality TV show would've made a few ripples and maybe have got a mention on the parent channel's news, the effects of multiple voting and competition scandals have rocked the big cash cows that are interactive viewer participation.

When even Blue Peter got caught up in it - twice, no less - you were guaranteed that even the cosiest naive fool was left feeling slightly suspicious of anything remotely riggable. So, no surprise that today's entertainment websites such as Heat World published stories about it and almost equally as little surprise when the news programmes and radio stations picked it up with plenty of people claiming they tried to vote for Same Difference and Rhydian. While those who voted for Same Difference deserve not to have their votes counted (at least, in my opinion), the fact that there was as little as 1% at points between Leon and Rhydian makes me very curious. Still, it's nice to know that Rhydian has already been scooped up by Simon Cowell and SonyBMG for a hopefully successful future.

Of course, by now, you're probably thinking that I'm some X-Factor junkie shut in who has dyed her hair white and had it cut into a Rhydian style quiff, from all of the gushing I've done the last two nights. Rest assured dear reader, this could not be further from the truth. As I mentioned last night, since reading Chart Throw, I can't take the show seriously. I have instead watched the last few weeks with a morbid fascination.

Thank God the show is over for a few months and I can now redirect my cynicism elsewhere. Quite where is yet to be decided, perhaps a anti-consumerist one will soon appear after I once again try to tackle the christmas crowds in order to complete my shopping. We shall see.

What. The...?

When I was in Cyprus a few months ago, I took too few books with me and ended up reading the ones that my boyfriend had bought with him. One of the books was Chart Throb by Ben Elton, a satirical view of X-Factor style shows. I've never really believed that reality shows are all that real but after reading Chart Throb, I could no longer watch X-Factor (which I'd never really been all that into past the initial rounds full of weirdos) in quite the same way.

Suddenly, I doubted everything. If a particularly good finalist got kicked out and an awful one got to stay in, I questioned everything - song choices, sets, voice overs, EVERYTHING. And I quickly got sucked into the show as I had never been before.

For last night's final, I was rooting for Rhydian. Most people I knew were too. Let's face it, Leon is easy on the eye but doesn't have a very strong voice and Same Difference project something creepy and far too Stepford Wife-ish in an incestuous way. I don't think their case was helped in my eyes by the fact that every performance included children doing incredibly cheesy things. Once upon a time, in a more innocent age, this could've been cute. Unfortunately modern society's obsession with all things hysterically paedocentric, to the point where parents may no longer film little Timmy making his stage debut as 3rd donkey in the class nativity play, their entire performance smacked of something slightly Michael Jackson-esque.

So, no real surprises when they were booted off for endless panto appearances, leaving Leon and Rhydian sweating it out. I thought it was in the bag for Rhydian - own slightly weird but cool image to appeal to the younger crowds, allegedly good moral values to please the mums and right wingers and a bloody good voice. But then, as I mentioned before, Leon is easy on the eye in the most conventional of conventional ways. His voice may not be powerful like Rhydian's but it can be tweaked by an engineer and he can smoulder on a couple of single covers, maybe an album, and then fuck off back to obscurity with enough money to live comfortably for the rest of his life, providing he doesn't pick up pretensions or a coke habit along the way. And of course, the fact that those vote tend to vote for shows like X-Factor are 14 year old girls.

Whilst I am disappointed for Rhydian, I suppose part of me knows that he'll go on to have a good career in a more grown up market despite losing out. He has enough talent and interest about him to carry on.

I must say, I'm not entirely sure what has led me to write one of the longest posts I've written for some time about the X-Factor, let alone with the air of injustice that I'm sure I've been radiating. I suppose I blame Chart Throb in part, as I mentioned earlier. The day after I finished it a funny and totally coincidental thing happened. I was flicking through a copy of the The Mirror that had been lying around by the pool of our hotel when a tiny 2 inch side column caught my eye. The blurb was a small piece featuring Louis Walsh confessing that the houses that the judges had taken their groups to were in fact not their own as presented on the show. The fact that this very scenario was presented in the book made me laugh but also made me begin to consider the satire as perhaps more knowing that Ben Elton realised at the time he wrote it.

Anyway, enough pontificating about the X-Factor. If I spent half of the effort I do analysing reality TV as I do on this blog, I might actually post more than once a month.

At least X-Factor's done for the season.

Trust in God but keep taking the Nurofen

Last week, I was reading an interview with Jemima Khan about her ex-husband's involvement in the political unrest in Pakistan at the moment and she mentioned an old Pakistani saying that goes something like Trust in God but tether your camel. All week, that phrase has been floating at the back of my mind with new interpretations since I don't have a camel but I really liked the phrase. Most of the week, I've had what seems to be the most appropriate the London equivalent of Trust in God but lock your car.

Since I haven't been able to step out of the house all weekend, I once again updated it to the new version of Trust in God but keep taking Nurofen. Tonsilitis is meant to clear up by itself within about four days and seeing as this is more or less the third, it should be gone by Tuesday but as the saying goes, back up your options just in case and in this case, my back up is Nurofen. I have to be back in the office and face the wrath of the faulty air vent again tomorrow but my bag contains large supplies of over the counter remedies to help me through the day as my GP can't see me until sometime after I get back from my trip so antibiotics are out of the question. Someone remind of what I pay so much tax on such a small wage for precisely.

Re-reading that, I've come to the conclusion that the Nurofen has gone to my head and I should stop rambling about ancient phrases, the size of my tonsils and the NHS' short fallings before I say something truly stupid.

The Joys of Autumn

I love autumn. I love the array of colourful leaves, crunching along the pavement and crisp, cold mornings. However, the one thing that spoils it is illness. Over the last few weeks, I have watched those around me drop like flies with heavy duty colds, whilst I have been smug with only a light cold that in capacitated me for a weekend. Until Thursday.

Thursday afternoon, I'm sitting in my office when I suddenly feel a chill creep through me. I ignore it, blaming the broken air conditioning and go about my business. By the time I got home that night, it was clear all was not well. I woke up on Friday morning feeling as if I'd been run over by a mucus truck. Against the good advice of those around me, I decided to go to work as I basically had to.

One of the reasons I haven't blogged recently is that I've had a semi-promotion in the form of a freelance fashion assistant position. It's an awesome opportunity to prove myself and I've been throwing myself at it full throttle. Unfortunately, I appear to have been spreading myself a little thin because of it - doing my normal job, doing another shoot last week, as well as this freelance thing. As such, yesterday when I felt rubbish, I knew that despite it all I had to go in and get on with the job as we fly out to our location the week after next.

Needless to say, what was a cold is now full blown tonsilitis and I will be spending this weekend in duvet country, buried in the comfort of my bed, drinking copious amounts of tea and trying to hack into my work email which some oaf decided is a freelance address and requires copious amounts of paperwork to access. BLARGH.

Doctor, Doctor, where for art thou, Doctor?

Wow, I've made it 3 days running. Impressive, no?

Earlier this evening, our builder (who I will call Bob) was walking home from a hard day's work at my house when a car pulled up slightly behind him and one of the occupants hopped out, grabbed his bag and simulatneously spraying him in the face with some sort of gas - possibly CS spray, Pepper spray or some form of diluted acid.

Thankfully Bob managed to close his eyes, stumble to the nearest house for a glass of water before making his way back to our house. I got back just after he had been bundled into the downstairs loo to throw more water onto his face, which was temporarily paralysed and a very angry, swollen red. My mother grabbed her keys, a cold, wet towel and bundled Bob to the car to drive to the nearest A&E.

Upon reaching our local hospital, they rushed to reception where they were greeted by a snotty receptionist who wanted them to fill out forms and look things up on the computer, taking useless information such as his phone number. Quite why she needed Bob's number in order to get him to a doctor is beyond me. In the meantime, two nurses hung out in the background chatting and laughing. My mother, infuriated by the goings-on, immediately took action.

"Would you be asking for his phone number if he had a knife sticking out of his chest?" she asked the receptionist glibly.

The receptionist, clearly missing the sarcasm in my mother's voice, simply replied "no".

"Well then, I suggest you go and get a doctor," she said calmly, "because I am a member of the media and I will not forget this treatment."

Much like muttering "lawyer" to NTL, "media" made the receptionist jump up like she'd been stung and run off to fetch someone. She didn't need to know that my mother's position in the media is not in the news or any form of journalism but rather, film making. It worked and Bob was immediately ushered through to the next hurdle.

A nurse came in to rinse his face and eyes in particular. Now, logic would dictate that a nurse would know how to do something so basic as rinse someone's eyes. Logic is clearly no longer a factor in the NHS as the nurse stated that she didn't know how to perform the procedure. Again, my mother had to inform her that rather than just stand there, perhaps she should go and fetch someone who knew how to.

Are we seeing a pattern here, ladies and gentlemen?

Another nurse was summoned, who duly rinse Bob's eyes, although somewhat stupidly did it with him leaning forward over a sink, rather than lying on his back to allow the liquids to drain away from the eyes.

At that point, they were told they would have to drive to an eye hospital in order to see a specialist and make sure that no permanent damage had been done to Bob's eyes. There, they were taken straight through with no fannying about asking about phone numbers and parents' names. It is now, six hours after the attack that we know the full extent of what could've happened to Bob otherwise. There were small flecks of the spray that landed on his hands and where they hit, he now has angry red burns.

I know this isn't my story but I felt compelled to tell it. Not only is it terrifying that something can happen like that in broad daylight but the incompetence of the first hospital is staggering. I will not name and shame it, although I really should. I had a nightmarish experience there as a child when I badly sprained my wrist and my entire arm swelled up like a balloon and I couldn't move my thumb. I spent eight hours sitting in A&E and was rescued from queue oblivion only by the fact that I was wearing my school uniform (my father and I had not anticipated it would take all day, I thought I would make it into school for mid morning). One of the nurses recognised my uniform as her daughter was in the year above me and very sweetly came over, asked me how long I'd been there and took me through straight away.

I really worry what the Government's closing of more A&E units will mean for the few that remain open in their already oversubscribed state. If my mother was not such a good liar, they would probably still be there now and Bob could've easily been permanently scarred or worse by some idiot thugs.

Rawr. Boo. Hiss. (Tee hee)

Another work experience bailed on me today, which means that not only am I now doing the job of two people, I also can't really leave the cupboard unattended. Ergo, I can't go to shows unless they're on my lunch break or after work. I'm really annoyed as it means that the great glory that is fashion week is now cruelly dangled just out of my grasp. I can just about get the tips of my fingers on it, such as the show I went to after work but I can't grab it and savour it for all its worth.

In short, it blows.

But not everything in life blows. Surfing around on Youtube, I came across this little gem:




If that doesn't make you laugh (or even titter quietly to yourself- you have no soul.

Another random thing and then I'll be quiet and leave you good folks alone; why on earth, when I hit publish on this thing, does my status report come up in a mixture of German and English?



Weird.

...And then, the rain came

and Truck got cancelled. Well, postponed.

Either way, BOOOOOOO.

So, you think you're cool, do you?

Before, I forget, I would like to post an open comment to the over-styled twats in the queue behind me at Gareth Pugh's show last night. If you want to comment on my shoes, either do it in your own time or if you must verbalise within earshot, do it to my face. Although, it would take some nerve when one of you is wearing Vivienne Westwood 12 inch heels that she can barely walk in and the rest of you have some of the sillies haircuts I've ever seen.

Anyway, Gareth Pugh. But for the grace of god, I managed to acquire some tickets to go and gawk at the V&A after work yesterday. It was a wicked show but unfortunately, I couldn't use flash so the majority of my photos are slightly motiony or dark.









Having experienced what Donny Darko would make given a sewing machine and several metres of black latex, we de-camped to the most anti-fashion-crowd pub we could find within walking distance to balance out the levels of bitchy fashion pretentiousness and for a very large glass of wine each to numb our fury. Grr. I will post a photo of my supposedly 13 year old shoes.