So fucked up. Just so very, very, very fucked up. Oh god.
“Channel 4’s latest attempt to seduce us with a mixture of swearing and sex comes in the form of True Blood, the latest in the long line of sexually explicit, violent and vulgar programmes that have, sadly, become the norm on British television. True Blood is a shocking tale of depravity, explicit sexuality (bordering on pornography) and vile language.”
“More offensive than all this is the sheer distasteful nature of the content. There’s oral sex, overt discussion of genitalia, graphic sex scenes and foul language.”
You and I share more than a sunny disposition and plimsolls so old and gross they have to be taped together.
We also love thrash.
And James Taylor. (I could watch that all day.)
I think you might be my real dad.
We can all imagine the type of woman that do this, right? My childhood JP* friends’ mothers. And so by now, also my childhood friends. Hmmm, how grim.
For the rest of these charming “Haunting Halloween decorations”, as well as step-by-step instructions (in case you’re incapable of figuring out how to dye three pumpkins white and spell out the word ‘boo’) then take thee self over to the ever helpful Good Housekeeping Guide. It’s pretty much my bible.
*Jewish Princess
Very possibly one of my favourite songs.
In my search for a working vodka jelly recipe (I’ve never managed to get it to set, probably because I put in too much vodka – in the fight between quality and quantity, the latter always seems to win) I discovered an entire website dedicated vodka jelly. Yep an entire website. And an entire page dedicated to ‘interesting vodka jelly facts’. Such as:
‘Also known as Vodka Jello or Vodka Jell-o in U.S.A’
Clearly there’s a clash of semantics here. I’m not sure I would use the word ‘interesting’, nor ‘facts’, come to think of it.
Anyway, it appears to be British. WHAT???!! Yes exactly! I truly thought it would be the handiwork of some American college students. Much like this and this.
SPRING BREAK!!!
I am at that stage in my life where a new Stephen Poliakoff film is far more exciting than any night out. Actually, I don’t think there’s ever been a stage when the opposite was true, despite Friends & Crocodiles through to Capturing Mary having been a series of slight to not-so-slight disappointments.
My hopes are once again up for a dashing with Glorious 39. I think it looks rather pleasing (and certainly very pretty), and I’m going to ignore any rumblings to the contrary.
I’ll allow that it does look a bit ludicrous.
My brother bought me Tim Walker’s Pictures for my birthday (after I emailed him the above amazon link daily for 3 months). It is the most wonderful book EVER.
It will make you happy. FACT.
… and your boys and your snoods and your fairisle cummerbund and your barbed wire bracelet and your lambskin cropped jacket and your…
awkward sandals and socks. I love them too.
When I’m an 80-year-old spinster I’m going to spend all the money other people wasted on children on buying books, cigarettes, single malt, theatre tickets and Burberry Prorsum. I’ll be a deeply unpleasant old woman, but I’ll be wearing overpriced cashmere cable knit to bed. So there.
Yes, Peaches Teaches! The worst agony aunt column EVER in the history of EVER. And oh my god! Agony aunts in general are awful. But really, truly there’s nothing like seeking advice from PEACHES GELDOF. Never mind that I don’t believe anyone really sends their problems to Peaches Teaches. I refuse to believe anyone is that stupid. It would destroy my faith humanity. Period. I have to believe that all the ‘problems’ are made up by the ES magazine interns (poor things, talk about literary death sentence). My friend used to work at Sugar and tells me this is what they did there, which to be honest, slightly broke my 12 year old self’s heart. Anyway, I digress…
Peaches Teaches has been around since May but I have somehow managed to blinker it out from my world – a simple act of self-preservation, clearly. Anyway, now I feel strong enough to confront it (apologies if you’re not there yet). So lets read a little extract shall we! And lets have a picture of the wise one herself. Just for context, so we don’t go about forgetting the woman behind the words…
Wonderful, it’s like staring at my own personal guru (my guru clearly wears a bowler hat). Ok, impart your knowledge guru. We’re ready!
Q I’ve been a brunette my whole life and I am desperate to go blonde but lacking in courage. One of my friends has suggested I buy a wig and try it out first. Do you know a good shop where I could try some on? Thanks.
A Weirdly enough, shopping for wigs is not at the top of my day-to-day to-do list. I find them far too Elton John-meets-Britney circa the breakdown to be appealing. Though your friend is right, it’s better to try on a wig and see how being blonde suits your skin tone and look rather than dyeing it and ending up resembling a washed-out, frazzled poodle. Going for a much lighter tone than your natural one can be hit or miss, it either looks amazing or terrible.
I remember my sister Pixie trying on wigs for a fancy-dress party in Selfridges once and the store has some pretty realistic ones. Otherwise try the Afro hair shops in Dalston: whenever I pass them I spy blonde treasures glinting at me through the windows.
I was totally kidding myself. I AM NOT STRONG ENOUGH. I never will be.
Dear Peaches,
I recently suffered a breakdown as a result of reading your agony aunt page. It was so badly written and so terribly executed, I simply couldn’t handle the mental and emotional strain of knowing you were paid to pretend to have some therapeutic qualities and knowledge when clearly that is just impossible. And your accompanying picture, oh my god, WHY ARE YOU WEARING THAT HAT? Seriously, why? I’m lost. Please help.
dazed and confused, London
PS. You could help by quitting the public eye in general. This would help me – and humanity at large – enormously.
*** Please note, it took a lot of willpower to categorise this post under literature when really it should have been categorised under BULLSHIT***
London based Quentin Jones works as a painter, illustrator, animator and all round artiste extraordinaire. Quentin’s work reflects a keen interest in female imagery: from the glamourised form to the unsightly flesh. It is the kind of – often gruesome – art one would expect from a man (and yes, ‘Quentin’ as a name makes this even more plausible) (and yes I only linked man for that wonderful wiki picture of a ‘man’).
But Quentin is all woman (no wiki link, the picture is simply an ancient sculpture. BORING). For the past ten years Jones has worked as a model and her experiences in the form and figure obsessed fashion industry have clearly informed and influenced her work.
Yes, so Quentin is awesome. And I’m not the only one that thinks so. Her work is currently on display at Aubin & Wills (Jack Will’s cute offspring) in West London (until 1 November). Additionally, E. Tautz recently commissioned Quentin to compose a short animated film to showcase their Spring/Summer 2010 Collection – which was then presented at their Savile Row showroom. I tried to upload it but the file was too big so take a look on the Dazed&Confused site instead. It’s very English.
And finally,
I heart Quentin Jones.
But I have to side with the police on this one…
It is not for public viewing (initially I put it up in its entirety, but I’ve seen sense so now it’s just her face. Which is really enough anyway). There are too many fucked up (yes I am looking at you, VANESSA GEORGE) people out there, the very fact this picture was ever composed is proof enough.
Oh god, it gets creepier the longer you look at it. Especially when you start contemplating the significance of the fertility statues (see full picture, google).
p.s. Some choice comments from the Times website discussion of the pic:
“These photographs are freely available on the internet. Can someone tell my how they can possibly be obscene? Rather lovely images I think and if you can’t show them in an art gallery where can you?” Che Vuegara
Is lovely really the only word you could think up? Also, aren’t you witty and clever? Che Vuegara, I get it! Hilarious, simply hilarious, you know, for a pedophile.
“Let’s just hope that all those “child protectors” and pedophile “experts” do not come up with the idea to visit the Sistine Chapel or the cathedral in Florence!” Matilda Moscovitz
MORON.
I have been attempting a lyrical paean to Andrew Garfield’s hair for months now, but I’m afraid that my verse is not as lustrous as his healthy strands, and without achieving true mimesis I don’t feel that I can do justice to such an abundant barnet. I can’t quite explain why it makes me come over all Keatsian; I think its thickness must be mesmerising. I am someone who instantly assesses a boy’s hairline for probability of future baldness, and this is the hairline of a boy who will never go bald. Ergo, it is a thing of wonder.
The hair gives a particularly powerful performance in Red Riding. 1974 was obviously a good time for hair with presence.
Here he is looking super cute boy (yes that’s a widely-used compound adjective) at the premiere of some movie I’ll probably never see, unless it involves a ten minute continuous shot of his hair being ruffled by invisible fingers.
He’s also a genuinely exciting and rather brilliant young actor but you should already know that. You may not know that he was Tom the neighbour in Sugar Rush, though, because you may not be a walking imdb specialising in British actors. Fortunately for you, I am.
2002. The year you could watch MTV Base for two hours and the Neptunes would have produced every single track you saw (I know you can’t see a song, but they didn’t produce the videos and… although I suppose if you had synaesthesia you could possibly be said to… never mind, you know what I mean). It was also my last summer of underage dancing in terrible clubs to all the hits from 2000-02 while wearing undoubtedly hideous clothes. I remember Fabolous and Gravel Pit and Big Pimpin’ and Ginuwine and Nappy Roots and Nelly and B2K and I could go on ad infinitum because I pretty much love all hip-hop and r’n'b except for emo rappers, Eminem and Asher Roth.
I think I danced particularly badly but joyfully to this.
“Ass is fat, frame is little, tattoo in your chest with his name in the middle.” I will still be able to quote that line when I am in an old person’s home. And I will, frequently and loudly at anyone that happens to walk past me.
2002 was also the year that I met Tim Westwood when I lost my hat on the street and he called me ‘little lady’. That was a crap story, I’m sorry.
