TRASHFORCE REAPER

DEVIL IN DISGUISE

2009-02-24T05:48:00.001-08:00

HTTP://TRASHFORCEREAPER.WORDPRESS.COM

I've moved, guys. Sorry to fuck up your links - I'm a terrible person.

(I'll start updating the new blog soon, but I have three magazine articles on the go right now and I am just not used to hard graft! The wordpress one is going to have shorter, more frequent entries,and maybe more fashiony shit, but it'll probably have just as many "fuck"s and idiot jokes, so don't start worrying that it'll be like when Dylan went electric, or when Bowie got his teeth done, or something. How will you cope without my foul mouth until then? Maybe try watching The Sopranos. Or that rap that Limp Bizkit did where they said fuck 36 times. Remember that?

Uh, no. Me neither, man. Me neither.)

Seriously, guys. Change my link! I mean, I'm SO MUCH BETTER now. I haven't managed to quit the innuendo, but still. It looks nicer.

I HAVE A DREAM WHEN I CLOSE MY EYES, I WISH MY HAIR WAS TEN FEET HIGH

2009-02-19T05:27:00.000-08:00

I'm sorry if it seems like I have a hair fixation lately, but you know what, reader? I do. I am all about hair. And if you're expecting my usual venom, then you are out of luck today, because I have nothing but good things to say about Maria Cristina's splendid barnet, as photographed by the irritatingly talented Tommy Ton of Jak and Jil (Incidentally, fuck you, Tommy. I'm sorry, but there it is. You are so very good at making me shirk in the workplace, and I resent you for it. You had better not be handsome as well, or so help me God.) Evidently someone at Oscar De La Renta feels the same, and saw fit to style their models with a sort of craze sexy version of Jack Nance's hair in Eraserhead, and I am all kinds of wild about it. If anyone knows how to recreate this hairstyle with relative ease, I will...well, you know the rest. I think we all know the format of this blog by now, no? I'm hoping that Vogue will do a characteristically patronising feature on it within the next two months, which would be perfect for me, because my skills in that area could best be described as "intermediate" and, dare I say it, "lazy".

As much as I hate to jump on the blog bandwagon (blogwagon?), I am so close to buying this:

It's unreal. Does anyone else find it ironic that they might have spent a few of their earlier teenage years trying to distance themselves from their "goffick" past, only to find themselves hitting sixteen and going full circle, wishing they'd kept all their original spooky garb (Man, I am deep today)? Unfortunately I'm not one of those bloggers who gets sent this kind of shit in the post, despite having literally FIVES of readers, so I have to be content with paying exorbitant tax on it, but that's the way things go. If it helps my cause, I can reveal to you exclusively that I heard once that wearing clothes by Obesity and Speed is, ironically, an effective cure for obesity. No? Worth a fucking shot, at least.

Bonus Dyan:

(I'd let him perform an act on on me, the possible outcome of which might be that nine months later, something would "Get Born", AMIRITE?

...oh, come on, gimmie a break. I had nothing to work with there. It's not like I could have chosen a still where his cue-card said "Blow Me".)

THESE CHARMING MEN

2009-02-18T12:43:00.000-08:00

I don't know if you've noticed, but pretty much every guy in East London who is aged between fifteen and twenty-five has exactly the same fucking haircut (and also the same pale denim jacket - I'm nothing if not observant, me). For those of you who don't know what I'm referring to, it's what I like to think of as "The Camberwell Quiff"; a large, permed pompadour with tightly-cropped sides, not hugely unlike a jewish Flock Of Seagulls impersonator, but with a bit more pizazz, e.g.

(I'm sorry to name names, man, but you've gotta break a few Moz-coiffed eggs to make a blog omelette.)

Evidently Morrisey sent out a memo via email - which, I assume, he CC'ed to Hedi Slimane and Matthew Stone - some time previously, and you all responded in your droves (if you didn't get the email, by the way, then I'm sorry to tell you that you're completely Goddamn irrelevant and should probably just stop reading this now.) As much as I appreciate the commitment with which everyone has wholeheartedly gone about making this shit happen - particularly those of you who had to get a perm - I think we can all agree that it's all gone too far, really. One day it's three of you outside the Old Blue Last in your respective "ironic" t-shirts (Oh look, it's got Rod Stewart on, how droll!) , and the next it's spreading like, well, like Gonorrhea in the toilets of that selfsame pub.

Do you have any idea how fucking contrite this is all starting to look? The last time we had a haircut this ubiquitous was when women started getting The Rachel, and we all know what happened to Jennifer Anniston. Do you want to be the next Jennifer fucking Anniston, Camberwell Quiffers? Do you want to end up, if the tabloids are to be believed, having a miserable time holidaying in Barbados with - oh! The indignity! - your best friend and her husband, wishing that someone would just impregnate you NOW, RIGHT NOW? Do you want to star in an adaptation of a self-help book? Is that what you want? I'm going to suggest that we bring back a new hairstyle from the pop-culture graveyard instead - remember when Phil Oakey from the Human League had half of his hair long, and half of it shaved? That was really quite cool, when I look back on it. Or how about Prince's hairstyle in the video for When Dove Cry? That bit where he's crawling out of the bath makes me feel all tingly downstairs. See? Not all bad! It's not that I hate that Morrisey thing you have going on, honest. Initially, I actually found it quite sexy. But - as your own beloved Moz would have said - heaven knows I'm miserable now.

(Guess who finally got a red leather skirt? What do you mean "Julia Roberts' character from Pretty Woman", asshole? I meant me! And by the way, all your pop-culture references are even more out of date than mine. Burn. And yes, I do tend to delete my short, shit entries, because I'm pernickety. Bite me.)

KILL UGLY RADIO

2009-02-15T13:38:00.001-08:00

Urgh. This girl is absolutely killing it and it is making me hate myself. Initially I was thinking how awesome it would be to either be 5 8" or to have delicate, gamine little thighs that could carry off pale, patterned jeans with aplomb, but come to think of it, what about just having a really fucking huge dog instead? Maybe this whole deal is an optical illusion and this bitch is actually four stone, but either way I am getting a (sartorial) boner, so maybe it's best that I'm not wearing pink, skintight jeans after all.

I still want to dye my hair and I need to raise the money, so I am currently available for a variety of positions ranging from clown to prostitute depending on your budget. I'm afraid of clowns, so I would actually prefer prostitute, although if you're offering enough money I will happily combine the two (insert double-entendre about "gag" as a homonym here). No time-wasters, please.

(Apparently my birthday falls on the same day as "National Steak and Blow-Job day", which is such bullshit. I mean, I don't even like steak.)

WE DON'T NEED NO FASCIST GROOVE THANG

2009-02-12T16:40:00.000-08:00

I'm going to a Cramps tribute/Lux memorial night tomorrow (even though it's ten shitting quid to get in), and I feel like as a kind of follicular threnody to the late, great man himself I should shoot for the moon (perhaps literally) and enter the highest hair contest; after all, "The higher the hair, the closer to God" is the one axiom about 'Im Upstairs that I'd even consider getting tattooed on my virgin(!) flesh, and let's be honest, this is the only fucking chance I'll have to get close to Him at this rate, considering some of my current lifestyle choices. The good news is that it's only eight quid entry if you take a bottle of hairspray to the door, and you are (sort of) looking at a woman who once broke her little toe with an industrial-sized cannister of Elnett Extra Hold, so I would argue that it's safe to assume that I am going to have change from a tenner (albeit not enough to buy a pint in this city, the bastards).

I got a Guns N Roses t-shirt through the post today - in my defense, I won it for a quid and I firmly believe that on some level I was led to understand that I would also receive the seller's tattooed torso - and I am frankly conflicted about wearing it. On the one hand: Guns N Roses? Really? "Sweet Child O' Mine"? "November Rain?" That's something I want to openly affiliate myself with now? But on the other: It really is a fucking great t-shirt (no sleeves, aged to perfection), and I think we can all agree that, in his heyday, Duff Mckagan was highly bangable. Also, if you have never sung along to "Welcome To The Jungle", then you have no rock, or indeed roll. Sorry to be the one to tell you, buddy. Maybe I'll give it its premiere tonight at this:

I know, I know, I'm a ridiculous cliche. But I'm actually much more interesting than I seem! How about when I ask you those overly-familiar questions and then answer them as if the blog is a single person with which I am having a two-sided conversation? Doesn't that actually strike you as a complex literary conceit, sort of like the way Camus wrote "The Fall" as a single monologue? No? Fuck it, then. Let's all just get hammered and really give 'er! I'll go get some beers right now!

(What, I always take my top off when I'm celebrating. Don't you?)

I WANTED LOVE, BUT I ONLY LOST MY PANTS

2009-02-09T12:38:00.000-08:00

Today I awoke with a really fervent, quasi-religious desire to buy a high-waisted, red leather miniskirt. I have no choice but to answer the divine call. It just really feels like the right thing to do on a purely spiritual level, you know? I think we can only really blame it on my inner self, who I like to present as a sensitive feminist thinker but is actually a slutty 1970s teen in grass-stained white jean shorts, whose name may or may not be "Cindy" (when she comes to me in visions she's usually bending over the hood of a cherry-red 1979 Camaro, and maybe sucking a lollipop. I think she's my spirit animal or something, if it isn't too misogynistic to think of a slut as an "animal"). In some ways it's comforting to know that I could fulfill my divine destiny with a thirty-minute journey to the scummier part of Camden, if only I actually had some money. I wish it had been me rather than Dolly Parton who had come up with the quip that "it takes a lot of money to look this cheap", but unfortunately she coined that kicky little aphorism first and I am far too tired to come up with an alternative, so congratulations, Wigtits McGee, you win again - I have no choice but to use your quotation like I'm some kind of gay Hallmark card (I don't think that was technically un-PC, you guys, because I believe that homosexuals would be the key demographic of a Dolly Parton greetings card, no? Prove me wrong!).

You may or may not be able to discern that I am super-cranky today and it's probably because, for biological reasons I do not wish to disclose, I have been living a life of enforced celibacy lately and it is making me weirdly fucking aggressive. I am now living my life sort of like a carnally-motivated Hulk, the most striking similarity between my self and Mr. Banner being that our trousers are perpetually on, against all odds, with the exception being that Hulk's remained so only because of television censorship. Know that if you rile me in any way, I will probably either try to fuck you or to strangle you (seems like things are not looking good for you, teenage-frontman-I-had that-lengthly-pervathon-about-last-week. Not looking good at all).

(I would never do both at the same time, though, you creep. Who the fuck do you think you are, Michael Hutchence? Stephen Milligan? Some other pop-culture reference from at least a decade ago? You sicken me, man.)

RIP LUX INTERIOR

2009-02-05T04:17:00.000-08:00

October 21, 1946 – February 4, 2009
No jokes this time.

Stay sick.

I GOT 96 TEARS IN 96 EYES

2009-02-04T11:48:00.000-08:00

In recent weeks, [REDACTED] has brought it to my attention that the frontman of S.C.U.M has a part-time job in a vintage shop not far from her own workplace. You would think this would please me, but it's actually kind of harshing on my perv, if anything, which is a total fucking bummer. You may recall that I said in a previous post that I would ( as the punchline of some wordplay, you judgemental bastard, I'm not completely classless) "let him [REDACTED]", which seemed hilarious when it was regarding an anonymous figure, but when it concerns an actual, flesh-and-blood person who may or may not be under 18, it goes from "lighthearted innuendo" to "having to tell the police that I am researching for a documentary" pretty fucking fast. You guys know how it is; it's all good old-fashioned letching and then suddenly you hear about him wandering around the high-street on his lunchbreak with a backpack on too tightly and you feel like a total asshole creep. Never humanise them, man. It always ruins it.

Before you put it to me that this whole blog entry is senseless misandry, I put this to you - maybe I am just being incredibly fucking post-modern and neo-feminist about this, huh? Think about that, wise guy! I could justify my relentless female chauvinism by making reference to the fact that their band appears to be named after Valerie Solanas' Society to Cut Up Men, but I won't for three reasons:
#1. Laziness.
#2. A sneaking suspicion that as some of them are barely of GCSE age this could be mere coincidence.
#3. Checking out a teenage boy's arse is not "Postmodern". Who do I think I am, the Richard Prince of skeeviness?

(In case you're not actually, you know, from East London, here are S.C.U.M in action. I normally fucking hate modern music, and admittedly this probably makes me as Shoreditch as it gets, but what can I say? Hand on heart (heart, officer!), I actually dig them. And, all joking aside, they really are fucking [REDACTED].)

YOU'RE SO PHYSICAL

2009-02-01T12:14:00.000-08:00

There's nothing like an acrid, piss-coloured bottle of three-quid wine to round off a long day at work, or so I am telling myself to avoid crying into it (again) as I look out of the window at the fucking snow (snow is rain but about 100% colder, you Hallmark-poem asshole, stop believing the hype). Just kidding (about the crying, I am deathly serious about the snow)!

The reason I'm poorer than ever is because I am saving for things which I consider to be essentials according to that incredibly skewed logic that you've always found so Goddamn charming about me; there is a lamp in our lounge which has been missing a bulb for three fucking months, but instead I am concentrating all of my vital energy into things like looking for the perfect fur coat (in my defense, have you noticed that it is SNOWING LIKE FUCK outside? Seriously, take a look.)I saw a pretty good vintage faux-lynx one on my lunchbreak in Camden today, but if you know of somewhere in London that I can get a cheap fur coat which looks like one of these:

Holla, and I will reward you appropriately; if I know blog readers as well as I do then you're all chicks anyway, so my usual currency has little or no weight here. Maybe I could offer you a pony. You guys like that shit, right?

It's two weeks until Valentines day, so if you're not a smug jerkoff you might want to spend the 13th getting trashed at the Macbeth with me so you can use the Big V to sleep it off. I'm going back to the countryside this week to check out my parents' new kitten (I know, I'm a total pussy). Better go and pack something more respectable than a Cambridge Rapist t-shirt. 'Slates.

SHAKIN' ALL OVER

2009-01-30T06:29:00.000-08:00

Hey guys, remember crimping (If you say that you don't, you are either over 30, a dude, or lying, because we all loved that bullshit in 1992)? I just found this blonde chick's picture on The Facehunter, and apparently we actually looked pretty good. I know, I'm as surprised as you! I don't know if I can fully get behind this in the same week that I realised that Superdrug are selling leather-look scrunchies, because rather than snorting with derision I am actually extremely fucking interested in this prospect. I mean, a scrunchie? Holy shit, 2009, do you really want me to remind you of the last time we were all forced to think about scrunchies in the 21st century? Alright then:

"When fondling his manhood, slip a hair scrunchie around the base of it. The tight scrunchie combined with your touch creates an amazing sensation." - Cosmopolitan Magazine

Remember that? Yeah. That's what I thought. I actually felt I had to make the font size "extra large" to try and stop your brain from rejecting everything it had just processed like a poorly-matched skin graft. The tragic thing is, the last time I read this I thought "Jesus fuck, who has a scrunchie to hand when they're giving a hand-job, Denise Huxtable?", and now I'm toying with the very real prospect that the answer to that question might soon be "Me.".

(I was planning on going out and getting some slutty new lingerie today, but when I told F he proffered that he sees underwear as "another obstacle between me and tits." Sometimes my life really is like a charming, quixotic Jane Austen novel, and I feel like I need to share that magic with you all.)

LET'S GET COOL IN THE POOL

2009-01-30T05:44:00.000-08:00

Hey there, little buddy! I know you're bummed-out about how cold and depressing the weather's been lately, so let's just take a moment to listen to this and have a sleazy, synthetic summer together:

Don't thank me, man. You deserve it.

SHE SMOKED MENTHOLATED CIGARETTES, AND SHE HAD SEX IN THE HALL

2009-01-25T09:44:00.000-08:00

I know it's hard to tell because a savage overplucking of my eyebrows has rendered me constantly suggestive, but man, am I in a good mood today! I know that's not what you come here for, but suck it up, Princess, because I am going to be vomiting sunshine directly into your eyes for the next few days. I'd offer you more information, but I'm in an internet cafe and I feel pretty self-conscious and weird and, you know, self-indulgent rattling away at this thing in a room full of strangers. I mean, it's not like anyone will actually read anything that I write in this shit. OMG, can you even imagine! I would just die if that happened!

I think I might be starting a job at Sketch on Conduit Street, and I have no real idea where that is. Is it even a good thing? Also, is it so terrible that I am linked from a fair few fashion blogs, but I never really talk that much about fashion? I could lie to you and tell you that it was because I felt that the topic was "frivolous" or "beneath me", but this argument holds very little water as #1, I always instinctively use the fashion singular (i.e. "a trouser") in real, actual, everyday life (boldened for emphasis), and #2, if you scroll back through my archives you will notice that in no less than two separate entries, I have written at reasonable length about a man shitting himself and then making a video about it.

(Why doesn't everyone who reads my tedious, bad-tempered bullshit make themselves known in the comments section of this post? We can all just think of it as an experiment; an extremely sexy experiment which involves you, myself and maybe, just maybe, some awkward, pause-laden, Pinter-esque cybersex.)

TTYL, internet!(I hate myself.)

FLESH POLICE

2009-01-24T04:31:00.001-08:00

Well, the worst has finally fucking happened - our broadband is up the swanney. You and I are like star-crossed lovers, internet, and "the man" and various other societal conventions are always conspiring against us. Well not anymore, guy, because now I am blogging in the workplace. Yeah, man! Fuck tha po-lice (I had an epic night out at Shunt last night and I'm still smiling, but I'll try and keep up the derision, just for you, because I know that you hate change, God bless you).

I did a terrible thing and bought some shoes with the money I was supposed to be using to, you know, eat this week (I've included a picture of the relevant Gucci boots above as a comparison, but the shoes I bought were actually copies of the sandal. That's right, asshole, I squandered money on a motherfucking sandal in the middle of an arctic city winter, no need to make me feel any stupider than I already do.) If you're wondering why I am always posting pictures from Jak and Jil, it's because that website is pretty much the closest I get to hardcore pornography (other than, say, Anal Twinks 3, which I personally feel is an oft-overlooked classic of modernist cinema) when browsing the web. Eff why eye (fuck, I'm so cute), if anyone is interested in the singular secret of successful dieting, I have cracked it and am willing to share it for a paltry, one-off payment. In fact, you know what? I like you, and I'm willing to share it for nothing except your eternal readership (I am woefully needy and insecure, did I mention that?). Here it goes:

Why not try buying shoes/cigarettes/cocaine/vinyl/delete as appropriate instead of groceries?

(If you need it explained in more detail then I'm afraid you'll have to wait for the Guardian supplement like everyone else. I mean, sure, I like you, but you're not exactly "friend material", you know?)

YOU LOOK SO FINE, YOU'LL BE ILL FROM YOUR OWN BEAUTY

2009-01-21T09:11:00.000-08:00

Today I went to the market stall in Bethnal Green that I love so hard (they sell old-season stock from All Saints from time to time, which I invariably buy up), and I ended up buying a salmon slip dress, a grey sweater with a pussy bow and a powder-blue one-shoudered top with a Goddamn frill. Holy fuck, what is happening to me? Am I just producing a lot of estrogen at the moment, or what? Have my ovaries suddenly swollen up like tonsilitis glands? I mean admittedly, I've always favoured a mini over trousers, and when I'm not in leather and uniform black t-shirts I do enjoy wearing fur coats and stockings and very high heels and all that bullshit, but I'd always thought of the style of femininity that I am occasionally seduced by as "drunk society girl circa 1969", rather than (God forbid!) that of a Cosmopolitan-clutching, hunk-baiting "Scary Sadshaw" type. In my defense, the items in question were three quid apiece, but the fact still remains - I think I might finally be becoming a woman, and I don't mean that in the euphemistic way that they use it in Young Adult fantasy novels (that ship left the harbour some time ago).

(I should probably let you know that I am really into the idea of sending and recieving parcels right now (Parcelforce is the only thing I will stagger out of bed for with a hangover), so if anyone wants to indulge me in that, holla.)

THAT'S NICE.

2009-01-18T07:41:00.001-08:00

I'm sitting in the gallery being fucking deafened by our sunday afternoon freeform jazz. We get it, guy. You're soulful. You "got it going on". You "dig that crazy sound". Enough already. It's bad enough that someone stuck gum on The Arctic Monkeys while I was browsing footwear on Office.co.uk (we sell mostly-vintage rock photography, I should probably clarify, but some of it is new and really goddamn shitty), making me feel like a lousy employee for all of ten minutes, before I realised that I am doing this for fuck-all money and as such, am fully entitled to prioritise sandals over vandals (felt me leading up to that little bon mot, huh internet?).

There is a stall outside the gallery which sells leather jackets for £10 a pop, and I am seriously considering shooting for the moon and buying something tan, fringed and suede. Is that so wrong? I mean, I'm originally from Dorset, so t

hat probably makes me something of a white-trash, hicksville bumpkin anyway, or so the precocious fuckers who were born in the city would have me believe. I wonder if they'll let me pay for it with "magic beans", and by "magic beans", I mean "sexual favours". "Hey, guys, let's play cowboys and indians! You be Rootin' Tootin' Heroin Shootin', and I'll be Goes-Down-In-Bathrooms! Yeee-haw!"

LAST OF THE FAMOUS INTERNATIONAL PLAYBOYS

2009-01-15T16:03:00.000-08:00

I've never been to the Cat and Mutton before, but apparently it's official T4 headquarters now. I don't feel comfortable looking at any of those guys without a terrible hangover. Had to resist the urge to approach Henry Holland and scream "Jeans with holes punched in them? What the fuck were you thinking, dude?", but live and let live, I say, particularly as I bought one of his t-shirts from Dover Street Market back in the day, and I'm a lover, not a fighter. Have nothing to do today, so Lucy and I are "doing" the charity shops on the Kingsland Road this afternoon, after I scored an amazing Grace Jones EP in one in Wimbledon yesterday - I'm really eager to get my hands on some kind of slutty slip dress (preferably in pink satin and, dare I say it, a bit Courtney Love circa Live Thu This), because I just got my really severe "retarded Henry V" fringe cut back in and it's quickly become apparent that I need to signpost my sex appeal as clearly as possible. I tried to get an appropriate picture to demonstrate, but you have no idea how nervous I was googling "kinderwhore" for fear of being mistaken for some kind of Chris Langham character (topical satire circa 2005 a-fucking-hoy!).

Shout-out to the girl doing 'rokes at The Birdcage who sang an emotional Phil Collins song and read "Instrumental!" breathlessly off the autocue during the breakdown as if it was the very thrust of the song. Regarding Sanna's comment on my last post - I'm cool with that, but if it's going to be a date, then you should know here and now not to expect any action. They don't call me Philippa "Two Date" Snow for nothing. (They don't call me that. Come to think of it, they don't call me at all. Maybe it's because I put out too soon. Bummer.)

KIMONO MY HOUSE

2009-01-10T06:36:00.001-08:00

Didn't go into Proud today because I felt like death (cue that "Bow-ooo-BOUM-BOUM!" music from Ferris Bueller's Day Off) and it left me with nothing to do except cough up phlegm, eye up our solitary bottle of red wine and spend money I didn't have. F and his big ol' Jeffrey-Lee-Pierce-cum-Rabbi hat are back, and I definitely should be in bed (not like that, you pervert, but it's sweet that you know me so well), but instead in an hour I'll be huddled in a fur coat outside kareoke night at The Birdcage on Columbia Road in the name of catching up with my (currently woeful) social life. My only official 'rokes songs, in case you were wondering, are "War (What Is It Good For?)" and "I Would Do Anything For Love (But I Won't Do That)". I pretty much exclusively perform songs with parentheses, with the possible exception of "Call Me Al", and only then because absolutely no-one can resist its siren call anyway (BAH dun dun DAH! BAH dun dun DAH!).

Tomorrow I'll be back in the gallery again, no doubt repainting the walls (if you're reading this, asshole who put his bloody huge footprints under Mick Jagger, I will find you and so help me God, I will tear you three utterly superfluous "new ones" in increasingly surprising and imaginative places, or at the very least give you a stern ticking-off depending entirely on how attractive you are) and trying to book artists for this lecture season we're doing. Drop in and say hello, if you feel like talking to someone who is both sick and surly (please rush me to my grave) about buying a £500 photograph of Bob Dylan from the sixties. Or not, you know, whatever. But he looks pretty fuckable in it, if that helps. Don't be shy, I know you swing that way.

SHAKE APPEAL

2009-01-02T05:30:00.000-08:00

So as a fitting end for what began as my annis horribilis (awful university, depression, living in South-East London) and ended in triumph (new university, internship and living in the East End with my eerily perfect boyfriend of nearly three years), I got pretty fucking wasted on new year's eve and I am totally unrepentant. Okay, maybe a little repentant, because I always feel molto guilty every time I fall over, request "Totally Wired" by The Fall several thousand times and just generally make a cunt of myself at a party, but I think on the one day of the year when other people are so gone that they can't really see you fall it's kind of permissable, no? In retrospect, wearing five-inch platform heels to a fucked-up, drugged-up house party in the middle of Arsefuck, Dorset was a touch naive, but what else are you meant to wear to dance to Northern Soul? The cruelest irony was that despite being one of the only people not snorting coke until 6am I was still left with a bloody nose nonetheless thanks to the persistent ill-health which has characterised this Christmas for me. Thanks, baby Jesus!

Tomorrow it's back to work in London and I am not looking forward to living alone for the next week, arguably making me what could be referred to as "a colossal pussy". On the plus side, at least this gives me a week to myself to ponder pressing matters like whether or not I should give into temptation and wear lace tights (are they unexpectedly slutty? Do they make a person's legs look fat and/or curiously pale?), and why I am consistently drawn to stringy-looking, bony-faced male models who are aged between 17 and, um, 17 (it's because I keep getting more haggard but they still stay the same. Get out of my Dries, and into my car, etc).

("You'll need to take Poorboy with you. He's just got out of prison but he's a nice guy, really. Although he does sell some pretty heavy drugs." "Poorboy"? Am I living in Trainspotting now? Toto, I have a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore.)

CAN YOUR PUSSY DO THE POODLE-CUT, BABYDOLL?

2008-12-29T16:38:00.000-08:00

So I'm deleting my last two pointless entries and sitting down for a real fucking chat with you, internet, because I just feel like it's been too long, you know? I would hate for you to think that we're growing apart (that and I'm finding it really damn difficult to fall asleep in bed on my own these days, and it was this or pouring myself a pint of red wine, so you can think of yourself as my own personal June Carter-Cash).

Got up at dawn's crack (we're close friends) to get the train to work at Proud on Saturday; discovered that my boss was in hospital with an infected eyeball (I know, right?) and was pretty much left twiddling my thumbs in the gallery all day. Three Japanese-looking American students came in at one point to paw at some sixties Playboy postcards and then asked me if I knew of any good restaurants in Camden; this in and of itself wasn't interesting, but as they left I heard one guy saying "I'd like to see her on one of those postcards!" like a jock from a teen film circa nineteen ninety-fucking-nine, and when I relayed this anecdote to mother dear (who has, against all odds, always harboured the hope of having a Japanese grandchild) she was inconsolable at the thought of such a wasted knocking-up opportunity. Sorry ma!

Incidentally, if anyone is wondering what the best way is to get a wide berth on a busy tube after work, I'd suggest getting on in a leather jacket with a bloody nose. If you saw me and assumed that my nose had been having its own little fucking Columbian salt party this weekend, I'd like to disappoint you by letting you know that the only fun my face has been having this holiday is producing a disgusting range of mucus and bile in various shades. God, I'm sexy. How do you even manage to not touch me?

(Speaking of sexy, this morning I you knowed F's you know with such a degree of skill and aplomb that I successfully aggrivated his heart condition. Dontcha wish your girlfriend was a danger to your cardiovascular health like me? Etc.)

FLESH TUXEDO

2008-12-16T11:31:00.000-08:00

This wizard shit is getting out of hand. I really want this square, hooded t-shirt from Complex Geometries, but as far as I can tell it's not available in the UK, which is a bummer of phenomenal proportions. I tried telling myself that this didn't matter because surely sewing two squares of fabric together couldn't be so hard, but I will let you in on a secret, internet - I was telling myself a white lie. I hate myself for it, but what else could I do?

Speaking of hating myself, I also saw a vintage Ossie Clark maxidress today which I convinced myself would be an ideal wedding dress (I'm not actually a Sex And The City-style baby-machine harpy, it was just the only way I could rationalise spending £395), so if any dude out there is interested in a quickie marriage, hollah. I'm kind of surly a lot of the time, but I'm also pretty fucking amazing at certain things which I probably shouldn't refer to on this blog (hint: it ryhmes with "snowfobs"), so it's your choice, buddy. No pressure. I was also going to feed you some crap about how I'd used the photo of Paul to demonstrate how maybe you could propose to me with a heart-shaped balloon or some shit, but I'll give it to you straight - I just think it's awesome and hilarious. See? I would never lie to you!

I'm back in Dorset for Christmas, and this can only mean an even greater dearth of actual content than usual, so I hope your mind is on the pill, because it's about to get well and truly fucked. I just looked in the fridge and I was so bummed-out by its contents that I immediately went for a run. For an hour. I also put on some of that "hint of sun" moisturiser and then actually laughed aloud at myself, because who am I kidding? It's going to take more than "a hint" of sun and hard graft to turn my winter body into anything other than a vehicle for reducing people who were traumatised by Chuck Russell's seminal 1988 film The Blob to regressive tears. Seasonal weight gain, 1. Me, 0.

(Alright, I'll fuck you if you want, but no kissing.)

MOMMY, BABY WANTS TO FUCK

2008-12-12T11:16:00.000-08:00

I'm about to spend my evening watching Blue Velvet, because it's just been too long since I crapped my pants and/or felt nauseous, and I can also never get enough of feeling uncomfortable with the idea of ever calling my boyfriend "baby" again. I know you're probably wondering about my deeply glamorous night at the Supergrass afterparty, and I can reassure you that even though I was born in 1988 and thus don't remember a lot of the 90s, I got to re-live all of that Britpop shit by rubbing shoulders with all of the greats, including a frail-looking Natalie Imbrugliugluglia (remember when she was in Neighbours and then she did that "Torn" song?) and a sleazy Rhys Ifans (remember when he was in that one film I never saw and then inexplicably shagged Sienna Miller ten years later?). Cool Britannia, eh? At least the beers were free.

I'm really jonesing for a wardrobe with no doors, and I'm worried it's because of that bitch's walk-in-wardrobe in Sex And The City: Two Hours Twenty And Now Even Fucking Worse. Question of the day - is putting Russell Brand on your "list of five" (HYPOTHETICALLY SPEAKING, GOD!) a bit cruel to your partner? I mean, isn't it sort of like putting "Gareth from the Copy Shop" or "That dude who works in Superdrug that always checks out my ass" if you are a breathing human female who lives in the London area? Answers on a seaside postcard of some painted knockers (or a guy in a thong, I'm not picky) to the usual address. Or alternately, in the comments section. Yeah, I know you read this, you anonymous pussies. Bus-ted.

NICK THE STRIPPER

2008-12-09T13:24:00.000-08:00

To celebrate our collective fabulousness and our shared interest in getting MARRIED ASAP!, Lucy, Katie and I devoted monday evening to watching Slutty, Dykey, Horsey & Prim: The Movie, and thanks a fucking bunch, HBO, because that is two hours and twenty minutes of my life I'll never get back again. And while we're on the subject, a belt over a bare midriff (I removed the picture for the sake of your sanity)? I know this outfit is apparently from series 4, but seriously, what the hell, Patricia Field? The official website is trying to reassure me that the aforementioned belt is "holding its own" in that washboard wasteland, but I have news for you guys, - that thing isn't holding shit. That belt is utterly fucking superfluous and so, incidentally, are about ninety minutes of your terrible fucking film, especially the bit where the uptight one (I'm not making this up, although since everyone else saw this in 2007 or something I'm pretty sure you know that)"poughkeepsied in her pants".

Freddie has shaved off his facial hair and now he's all ashamed and vulnerable and "I'm not a girl, not yet a woman" without it, but you know what? If waking up to that every day makes me a lesbian, then you can whack me in a strap-on, put on a Lindsay Lohan album and call me Ellen DeGeneres, because I'd still hit it.

Macbeth on saturday, Off Modern on thursday and F and I are going to see Supergrass tomorrow even though I don't really dig Supergrass (insert pun about them being "alright" here) because they are friends of his family. Yeah, that's right, we totally have connections with one of the twenty hottest bands of 1994. Don't hate the playas, man. Hate the game. Hate the game.

WE DID IT 'TIL WE WERE UNCONCHO

2008-12-07T14:46:00.000-08:00

I am feeling a pretty strong desire to throw on an overpriced drug rug and make like some kind of wanky Hoxton druid every time I look at this Lindsay Thornburg cloak, although to be honest I'd rather have it in black and go for a kind of "remember that time when Nico went all gothy and mental and we all nervously ignored the fact that she was, you know, a fucking racist?" vibe. Sometimes I think it's probably a good idea to throw out all the different "fashion identities" you've been collecting and just go with "wizard" for a while, especially because it opens up the possibility of making a ton of "wizard sleeve" jokes, and who doesn't dig those?

Am getting up at the crack tomorrow to go and hang my work, so seriously, fuck my life. But on the plus side, I just got in on the whole peep-toe boot thing about twelve months too late and they are killing me in the best possible way.

FIRECROTCH, SCHMIRECROTCH

2008-11-24T13:20:00.000-08:00

You know, I get bored of my hair every few fucking months and I am pretty sure I'm going to go into Macks' salon on a thursday and get my hair changed from black to the colour of this girl from a Jeurgen Teller editorial in Purple Fashion. I mean sure, you may call me a "firecrotch", but you know what? My crotch is pretty fiery. I mean, not in a questionable herpes kind of way, but in the way that Juliette Lewis' crotch was fiery in Natural Born Killers, and anyway, I am pretty sick of people coming up to me and saying things like "Has anyone ever told you that you look like that Daisy girl who's always in the London Lite?" or (I shit you not) "I really liked you in that Agent Provocateur campaign", because it's all very flattering, but seriously, who are you kidding? I am hella short and you are hella, hella drunk and I could never wear a leotard as outerwear because, as I recall, there is a lyric in Baby Got Back which outlines that 34/24/34 is big-bottomed "only if she's five foot three" which I am. I am probably nothing but the vague, blurry outline of a black hipster fringe to you right now and frankly, I happen to be very sensitive about the fact that I have never actually dated Mark Ronson so this whole conversation is just twisting the knife.

On the plus side, I must at least be looking better than I did last year, because it has been at least six months since anyone has shouted "AMY WINE'OUSE!" in the street or made an original and side-splitting crack about me going to Rehab. Go Team Me, I guess.

IN THE YEAR OF 1966 I GOT COMMITTED TO A MENTAL INSTITUTION

2008-11-19T06:15:00.001-08:00

So I just saw this polaroid on Gnarlitude.com (which, I'll be honest, I check pretty obsessively) and I'm thinking it should probably just become my fucking ethos from this day forward; up yours, Dali Llama! Swivel on it, Buddah! Take a hike, Jesus, because from now on I'm taking all my moral and philosophical cues from a small Asian dude whose surname is a synonym for "penis"! I'm really into Alexander Wang, but sometimes I think it's because I'm deeply immature and I enjoy the chance to say things like "I'm so stoked on Wang" and "I'm really feeling Wang lately" in polite conversation.

F got a really 70s haircut and a porno 'stache yesterday, and my initial reaction was that I would not be feeling any wang for a considerably long time, if you know what I'm saying, but now I'm starting to dig it; I mean, what lucky woman doesn't want to live her life feeling like it's perpetually the 70s and someone - possibly a plumber, although given the reliability of our apartment's maintenance man, I sincerely doubt he would arrive in time for the sex to start - is going to undo their belt to the sound of slide guitar any minute?

(Maybe I'll shave him in his sleep)

I LOVED YOU SINCE IN GRAMMAR SCHOOL WHEN WE WERE SNIFFING GLUE

2008-11-14T13:57:00.000-08:00

So I'm alive and kicking; making a film, planning a show, forming a collective and still motherfucking unemployed, which on the plus side has at least left me with enough free time to stud my leather jacket. If you're wondering why I don't have a job it's probably because I've spent two months smoking, fucking, drinking cheap, tooth-stripping red wine and listening to Frank Zappa in our Bethnal Green shag pad - ha! - or maybe it's because the only interview I had was for All Saints and was an unmitigated disaster. If you're one of those people who really gets off, carnally speaking, on being humiliated, then instead of being pissed-on or dressing up as a baby or whatever else it is that trips your trigger, you weird fuck, I would highly recommend making a poster of an "ideal employee" with three or four other grown adults and then "presenting to the group" about the reason your particular quartet or trio gave your caricature six eyes (it's because a "good employee should be looking at everything") or you put it on rollerskates (they were actually supposed to be combat boots, but the guy in the sweatervest was as shitty at drawing as he was at being a human being), because I certainly had to have a very hot shower when I got home.

I had my fringe cut pretty short today, and a lesser woman might describe the overall vibe as "retarded", but whatever, I like it. Saw S.C.U.M play yesterday at the Off/Modern show and I'd really like to say that I didn't enjoy it, but you know what? I thought they had a certain Krautrock charm. I am a Barleyite cliche. Bite me. (I would definately let the singer of S.C.U.M bite me, FYI, although I just read in i-D that they are aged between 16 and 19, so if he's under eighteen then I am probably forced to retract that for legal reasons. God, I am disgusting. I hope his mum never googles his band.)

THEY SAY THAT VIRTUE IS ITS OWN REWARD, BUT WHEN THAT SURF COMES IN I'M GONNA GET MY BOARD

2008-09-10T15:23:00.000-07:00

Typing this shit on a new Macbook after my last laptop gave me the finger and started spitting up technological blood. Finally fucking moving back to London in nine days with my Little F. When I get back, I need to:

* Go to The World's End in Camden and get hammered.

* Drink a black velvet (thankyou, Jefferson Hack).

* Get tattooed, maybe twice.

* Apply to work at the new Rick Owens flagship.

* Catch up with everyone I've missed. And I mean everyone this time, for better or for worse.

(Is it disgusting for me to suddenly be the American werewolf in London of horniness just over a week before I move in with my boyfriend? I finally get to wake up every day next to the last thing I think about when I close my eyes and I still can't stop eyeballing men and having porny dreams about Bachannalian orgies and love in an elevator and all that shit. It's making me feel like a terrible girlfriend. I wish I didn't like fucking dudes so much, because fuck dudes, man. Why do they linger in your mind for so long?)

KREEPIE KUNT

2008-08-24T09:21:00.000-07:00

So if you’re interested in filling the position of the new friend who is doubtless going to enrich my life come September, then I suggest you consider these points before emailing me your application. Are you:
* Male?
* Attractive enough that there is a sexual frisson between us, but not attractive enough that I will accidentally fuck you?
* A fan of verbal sparring and/or occasionally reducing others to tears?
* Knowledgeable enough about art, fashion and pop culture to be interesting, but not enough of a soulless, glassy-eyed, bottom-sucking hipster that I will ultimately find you desperate and depressing?
* Familiar with the majority of the lyrics to Paul Simon’s 1987 single “Call Me Al”?
* Unable to name an occasion on which you have worn a straw hat in the style of Pete Doherty?
* Able to provide me with $1,000 dollars within the next four days and six hours in order to purchase this Rick Owens vest?

If the answer to all of the above is “Yes”, you may very well be the candidate I am looking for. Apply within, and when I say “within”, I should clarify before you say anything that I mean “within the comments section or, alternately, my heart” rather than, say, “within my vagina”. I know what you’re like, you cad.

POKE-'ER-HONTAS

2008-08-10T04:08:00.000-07:00

So I looked at these leather leggings in Paris Vogue today and Jesus, do I have a lot of work to do before Winter. And by "work", I mean "unpleasant self-deprivation", "hormonal crying" and "reluctant pilates", because there is no way on God's green earth that my diminutive and thigh-centric body is going to pull that shit off. I personally would abso-fucking-lutely loathe anyone whose blog I read that sentence in, but please try and think of me as a loveable everywoman who has the same insecurites as you rather than, say, a total egocentric bitch.

Also I am fully aware that I am coming across as a shallow moron, but this is a blog, not a dissertation. If you really want to hear something about my intellectual pursuits, then know that I am trying to break my readers' block with two books simultaneously; Camus' "The Plague" and "Nexus" by Henry Miller. Hooray! Now the internet knows that I have an IQ of above one hundred! I feel validated and utterly self-important!

If only I can put that throbbing intellect to work tonight on creating a "hilarious" punning team name for the pub quiz (Quizteama Aguilera? Quiztian Bale? Quiztian Dior?)then maybe I can actually win some sodding money. What kind of motherfucking person is so chronically unemployable that a flyering job for a sushi restaurant - possibly one which entails wearing a koi carp costume, I was so desperate I didn't even check - is beyond their reach?

Don't even bother to answer that clearly rhetorical question. Sometimes I think you like seeing me fail.

ORGIASTIC PARTY GAMES

2008-08-09T13:42:00.000-07:00

This video - written and recorded by a man critics are calling "The fecal Larry David" and accompanied by the informative and thought-provoking tagline "chris doing a video blog bout a girl that shat in his bed" - illustrates exactly why my stupid, shitless blog will never compete with his diary. You have no idea how fucking sorry I am that I had to use the tag "shit stories" more than once, but seriously? This guy is the Alan Partridge of bowel movements. I was going to write "how does this shit even happen?" but I would hate to have to add "no pun intended!" afterwards like a total asshole, and I already held out on making a punctuation joke using the word "colon" so I might as well keep it classy.

I'm doing the Postcards quiz tomorrow with Chloe, which I would be more confident about were it not for the fact that the last pub quiz we participated in culminated in her writing "Take That" as the response to three consecutive questions, the answer to one of which was later revealed to be the chemical formula O2. A charming Polyvore of unrealistically sized things which you might like to buy for me follows this paragraph, not only because I am a consumerist black-hole but also to distract you from the fact I have spent the better part of this entry encouraging you to watch a man talk about human waste. Viz:

FAGGY LITTLE LEATHER BOY

2008-08-08T04:03:00.000-07:00

Recieved the terrible news this morning that my "fantasy horse" t-shirt was permanently out of stock and was so hormonal that I nearly sobbed. Figured it should be like replacing a dead dog and immediately ordered another Margiela "homage" from Topshop Boutique which has padded shoulders and is 89% sure to make me look like a deeply homophobic New Yorker cartoon of a lesbian, but regardless of this situation I really dig it and I'm pretty sure that's all that matters, especially now that I'm moving in with Fred and have no need to be alluring for at least the next academic year (burn).

Freddie's gone to play his festival gig so I am pretty much just eating painkillers and bumming around the house alone. It's a real pity for him he's gone, because I read quite possibly my favourite sex tip of all time yesterday in an article about Cosmo and it's a real doozy:

"Try putting a plain ring doughnut around his erect penis and biting it off sensually" (key words in bold for emphasis)

Step aside, tantric sex, because it looks like someone has the market on mind-blowingly romantic erotica well and truly fucking covered.

RIGHT NOW I KINDA NEED A FIGHT, MY MOTORCYCLE AND A SWITCHBLADE KNIFE

2008-08-07T15:16:00.000-07:00

I have no idea why Rough Guide isn't avaliable on the internet because I know it isn't 1992 anymore but I just discovered Magenta DeVine and holy shit, I think the sight of her tottering over a sand dune in high heels and a rubber miniskirt has just broken my heart and reassembled it in the shape of a giant "M" ( for Magenta, you asshole). I have a special place in my soul for people who are just a little bit sartorially inappropriate because, really, what greater joy is there? If you don't know the covert thrill of wearing spike heels to an outdoor party then I don't think I even want to speak to you anymore.

Fred and I spent the day building sugary death-traps for the wasps, but the sex last night was fucking incredible so I guess we're still raunchy and relevant. What did YOU do today?

YONDER STANDS THE RECKLESS MOTORMAN

2008-08-06T07:38:00.000-07:00

Things I have paid for, been given or have otherwise received since my last entry:

1. Forty-eight condoms at the same time.
2. A Jesus tapestry.
3. Thrush.
4. A clutch made from what appear to be various endangered species.
5. A holding fee on our new apartment in Bethnal Green.
6. A "persian-style" rug from an Ebay shop called (I shit you not) “The Lord Of The Rugs”.
7. This Margiela ripoff “fantasy horse” t-shirt, which is sort of disgusting but pretty, you know, fabulous at the same time, no?

LESS FASHION, MORE THRASHIN'

2008-07-20T14:33:00.000-07:00

I am completely bummed that this blog will never have as many crowd-pleasing gross-out yarns as the paper memoir Harrogate has started recently, which has an entry that begins "Went to the pub with the usual crowd and was telling them about the time I shat myself at work" and ends with him soiling himself for a second time in the car. I mean, I thought the fact that I just got back from a festival which I went to free courtesy of the Flaming Lips was pretty fucking cool, but then Chris pulls out yet more fecal folklore concerning a girl he brought home last night who wreaked havok on his white sheets and it completley harshed my anecdotal vibe. Jesus fuck, do people just have minimal bowel control now? Or do they do it to make a good diary entry?

Like you even care about my Flaming Lips stories anyway. Jerk.

TRASHFORCE REAPER

2008-07-17T15:24:00.000-07:00

I think I'm gonna just throw in the attractive towel and buy some 90s boardshorts for the few inevitable visits to the beach (which normally I couldn't give one hundredth of a shit about but looks newly prepossessing now that I'm back from the Big Smoke the summer), because let's face it, the only time I am going to be there is with a beer in my hand and surrounded by stoned guys and I kind of want to look like the mannish, biker-t-shirt-wearing jerkoff that I sometimes am, but you guys, is it maybe just a bit too Wayne's World? Because as much as I enjoy the 80s metal aesthetic I also enjoy the whole "not being a completely asexual figure of ridicule" thing that I've kind of been rocking up to now.

Am also toying with the idea of getting the phrase “Trashforce Reaper” tattooed on my arm, even though I will freely admit that it is in fact the name of a t-shirt design, because I think everyone can agree that “Trashforce Reaper” sound like simultaneously the most epic and the most unpleasant job description ever. If you think a tattoo is too much, then I guess there’s always deed poll; I know you’re going to say that “Trashforce” is a pretty masculine-sounding forename and maybe you’re right but then again holy fuck you judgemental asshole, do you really think your name sounds any better?

Overheard at the Hart last night, verbatim:

"My mate slept with a prostitute and got explosive gonorrhea. He cried at work."

I am happy to remain 100% ignorant of how it is biologically possible for the clap to be "explosive".