27th December

I might explode. I need to just lie in a dark room with a bin bag over my head with Enya playing in the background because if I even begin to think about how much work I have to do I am just going to burst into tears. Though if I am going to lie down anywhere it may as well be in Claridges with a glass of champagne with some commoner rubbing my feet with gold dust.

‘Why Martha are you writing an absolutely unnecessary blog that about six people will read then?’ you might ask. Well because my thought process is currently a little like this…

‘You’re in third year! THIRD YEAR! Why are you playing Hobbit Monopoly? Who is Bilbo Baggins anyway? Where did that monopoly £500 go? Come to think of it where did your real money go? I should really start paying off that endless overdraft if I’m going to have any chance of saving up for a deposit when I have to buy a house next year. I should apply for a job to go with that house. I should write more blogs otherwise my CV will look like Lindsay Lohan wrote it’

(It's just fun for all the family, and a real thing!)

And there you go, also it gives me a reason to chortle away to myself and distract myself from my 3,500-word essay and another essay and an exam. I also decided it must be time for a blog when my uncle by marriage yesterday asked if I was still blogging, as he hadn’t read one for a while.

As you may know it was Christmas two days ago (unless you are Kim off Eastenders, my life now revolves around that program) and yesterday was Boxing Day and today is 27^th December and so begins my blog.

27^th of December is actually pants and I’m sure you will all agree. It is the day when Christmas officially ends; Boxing Day is all right because you can convince yourself that it is an extension of Christmas day. At that stage it is still acceptable to drink before lunch and eat an entire Kinder Santa without judgment, you wear your new things, you know, new pants new jewelry, jumper whatever you were given and you feel all good abut yourself because you make small talk with your nana.

But now it is 27^th, it is a nothing day. Nothing happens, it has actually no purpose (at this stage I wish to apologise if it is yours and/or a family members birthday/wedding/funeral.) The majority of us don’t have school/work/college/uni/community service. It is officially the day of the Christmas come down. You are left without the excuse to eat and drink and instead just the horrible realization that you are now fat, so fat that you are probably entitled to Maternity leave. It isn’t just 27^th it’s all those in-between days that lead up to new years where all you have left to do is think about where you’ve failed in the year so that you can come up with some kind of new years resolution so that you don’t look like an arrogant prick when you say you don’t have one. ‘I don’t have a new years resolution’ translates as ‘I think I am absolutely perfect.’

(Is she actually joking me? Last time I looked that thin I was seven)

 Right about now I am expecting you to be overdosing on Rennie Soft Chew tablets, so to keep you optimistic here are a few ways you can get through those in-between days.

1.    Sales

I wouldn’t attempt this myself, as all I have left to my name is monopoly money, but it is a nice distraction. If you order online it gives you something to look forward to in the post and something to unwrap if you have POWS (that’s Present Opening Withdrawal Syndrome.) Though by the time you’re not hung-over enough to actually go sales shopping you can probably only expect to find some yellow speedos, festive.

(Is there a problem Selfridges can't solve?)

2.    Start a new project

I am lucky enough to have essays to keep me occupied but if you’re not so lucky why not get ahead of yourself and start your new years resolution early? It will give you something to focus on rather than eating like Miss Piggy up until new years day. This is assuming you all have the same resolution, to lose weight, everyone does. It also means that you can allow yourself a hung-over food day on new years day as you’ve made up for it earlier in the week.

3.    Party on

Who said celebrations are over? If you have the time off work and that Gaelic Cream leftover from last years raffle crack it open! Think of this period of time as another mini advent, count down those days till new year in style with a mince pie in hand and an unawareness of your surroundings.

(Oooh, I do love me a glass of Irish Meadow)

4.    Give yourself something to look forward to

My mother always says the secret to a happy life is having something to look forward to. In my case this is an exam on urban culture, don’t have something to look forward to? Book something! Anything! I here the Holiday Inns in Coventry are reasonably priced this time of year.

5.    Plan for New Year

Stop moping about in your house waiting for someone to call or an invitation to slip through the post, stop refreshing your Facebook homepage in a desperate hope you’ll be invited to a ghastly house party where the group photo is a cartoon beer. Make your own new years plans, book a meal, record some documentary on sky plus, go from door to door finding someone to kiss at midnight whatever takes your fancy. You have to make things happen for you girlfriend.

(Never ever go to a party where this is the chosen image to represent it. Thanks for your help realglitter.com)

6.    Reminisce

Give yourself something to look back on. We spend these last days of the year praying for 1^st January to hurry the bloody hell up so that we can stop living in the dregs of this year. This will only result in the whole of next year being forgotten on January 1^st 2014. Enjoy basking in the memories of this great year; I’m sure you had a great one. Think of everything you achieved, where you went, who you met, what you wore. I’m not suggesting you do anything as miserable as writing a list but perhaps reminisce over a bottle (or box) of Jacobs Creek. If you don’t have such good memories bask in someone else’s or just in the bottle of wine.

There you are 6 reasons to enjoy these days. I know 6 isn’t as conventional as maybe 5 or 10 reasons but I was too inept to come up with 10. This is starting to make me realize that these days really are pants as I was hard pressed to come up with 6 reasons.

Happy New Year everyone and I should say a Merry Christmas too having banged on about keeping the Christmas spirit alive!

If all else fails, Hobbit monopoly is your best bet.

Things I hate about the fashion industry

Hi, remember me? You're favourite reluctant blogger? I cannot even begin to explain how bloody late this blog is, when was the last time I posted? Ah yes the closing ceremony of the Olympics and not even the paralympics. I have to say I am a little heart broken at the lack of complaints I have had for my absence!

You'd be disappointed if I didn't, as I always do, give you my excuse. You see Work placements, guest bloggings, fashion editorings and third yearings leave little room for my voluntarily, low-readership, no-revenue blog, but hey I missed ya! Now this week's blog could have been any number of my neglected ideas in the past weeks of my Filofax, pencilled in in an effort that I might gather up the gusto to get on and blog and the amount of drafts I have lingering on blogger is just a little bit pathetic, so I'm gonna make use of some of them.

So while I've been away I have been fully fledged full-time working in the fashion industry to the point of saturation what with TellusFashion, The Bristol Tab and British Style Bloggers (yes, that's your cue to read all of my incredibly well written entries.) And having worked properly in the fashion industry now, and by properly I mean not just talking about myself on my laptop at home which I have recently stomped on and now has a crack in the screen so its a holy miracle that this post is going up, I have begun to recognise things that I really hate about it.

(In case you hadn't guessed this is symbolic of a love/hate relationship with fashion)

It's like when you start living with a boyfriend (I have no experience with this so this is purely guess work) and you start noticing those annoying habits, that is what has happened to me with the fashion industry. And like a boyfriend, which to me work actually is cause I'm a career monster who would rather work my arms off than deal with a dribbling moron, I still love it more than anything in the world (apart from maybe my sullen flat mate who I have to keep reminding that I love because she isn't in the best  of moods due to illness) but I just need a way of venting and so here we go the things I hate most about the fashion industry....


Ego
I'm not on about other people's but my own. Being in the fashion industry and especially a journalist in the fashion industry I am required at all times to think the very most of myself. I have to believe that my word is gospel and that my taste is the only taste that matters in order to convince you lot that what I write isn't just a load of garbage. Blogging is an especially indulgent thing, sitting here typing complete and utter trash about myself and assuming that everyone cares that I cracked my laptop. They do not.

Run-throughs
This is something I experienced on Fashion Week. It is where a designer takes you through their collection piece by piece encouraging you to touch them and waiting for you to comment. Never done anything so awkward in my life. You are never going to tell as designer that you hate their clothes so you have to say you like them. But how many ways are there for you to say 'mmm yeah that's really nice' and 'yeah I like it' hopeless.

Street Style Photographers
Came across a fair few of these in London and there is no positive way around them. If you don't get picked to be photographed you feel like the ugliest, most unstylish person in the world, especially if someone takes a photograph of your companion and tells you that you're 'blocking the frame.' And if you do get photographed you suddenly pull the most awkward pose in the world and hope to God that it doesn't go to print.

(Kiss of death)

Pretentious
I'm already quite the pretentious little brat and spending a month up in London did not help the situation in the slightest. Here are some of the hugely pretentious things that living in London encouraged me to do: 
-ate lucky charms bought from Selfridges for breakfast
-purchased champagne flavoured Vaseline
-bought beef wellington and even worse milk (twice) from Harrods
-pre-drank on prosecco and then bought 3 further glasses on a night out
-bought a six pack of Sanpellegrino Limonata
-asked for extra bags in selfridges just so it looked like I bought more
-crossed roads assuming cars would stop for me
-expected to just walk into shows and not be on the guest list having a 'do you know who i am moment' same with clubs and not even grotty ones, I'm talking Mayfair. 
-got my nails done 3 times in the space of two weeks at 3 upmarket spas. 
-ordered Purdey's at lunch.
-bought my shower gel from Penhallogans and cake mix from selfridges. 
-wore both a feather gilet and a wool coat at the same time. 
-pretentious enough to pronounce Mary Katrantzou's name correctly and even correct others on it.        
-pretentious enough to remain expressionless throughout an entire fashion show without the help of filler. 

(Despite all this I have remained unpretentious enough to still drink vodka out of a Fanta bottle in a public loo, though it was the Liberty's loo.)

(Wouldn't be surprised if you had no time for me after this)

Heels
Obvious choice. Women who wear heels to work obvious have chauffeurs and aren't stumbling about on the tube's escalators like a newborn giraffe.

Fashion Week Posers
Possibly the most offensive part of fashion week. A select few, and they are easily spotted, hang around outside Somerset House purely trying to get papped for street style. Recognised by standing head on, alone,  performing repeat visits to Somerset House and conducting fake phone calls. You can tell that these are fake phone calls because the phone conservation doesn't include conversation, and the phone is held away from the face so as not to ruin hair/ makeup.

(This nonsense is what I'm on about, and please check out the groin area)

Designer's Bows
At the end of every show designers come out to take a bow. They are without a doubt the most pathetic bows I have ever seen, more like an awkward squat. They try and spend as little time as possible on the runway. Not being funny mate but I spent a lot of time sneaking into your show, I want a decent bow.

(Peter Copping at Nina Ricci, awkward as ever)

Shallow Industry
I watch programs like '999 what's your emergency?' and can't help but feel like I am picking a totally selfish career choice. I'm not helping anyone. I'm encouraging you that there is a right and a wrong way to dress and actually being who you want to be doesn't work and that everything revolves around looks. Not very liberal ey? I'm required to judge you by your appearance (well not specifically you, I'm sure you look beautiful) but worst of all I wouldn't want to do anything else in the world. What a selfish bitch.

Well there you are, you have your blog post but now I have serious doubts about my career choice. Nice one.

Hopefully see you next week!

A good sport

So here I am writing my Olympic special blog post on the very last possible day, the closing ceremony. You're lucky you are even getting it today, as I am nursing a terrible hangover, head in the toilet situation, absolutely charming.

I don't wanna here any complaints though thanks, I can promise you all that I am out of my slump now and have been contributing to other blogs, going to work, the gym (I know can you believe it?) and covering my car in decorations for yesterdays annual carnival, so I have been preoccupied by every day issues. 

Now with it being the Olympics and me being a regular gym go-er and all (regular being once a week at a push) I thought it was about time that fashion nerd produced some kind of sports wear post. I have been avoiding it for the last two and a half years because although I understand that sports wear is a necessity in most people's lives and sometimes even a choice, I really honestly cannot stand the stuff, nor understand it. I refuse to spend money on trainers so I have been wearing my converse to the gym. Did you know that trainers cost like upwards of £60 and you have to actually enter sports direct to purchase them?

(Absolutely unforgivably gross)

However after 20 years of avoiding any kind of physical exercise, my sudden (Usein) bolt of enthusiasm means that I have to start wearing, sports wear, dun dun dunnn! And having avoiding any physical exercise since leaving P.E. behind me it does mean unfortunately having to spend some of my hard earned cash on keeping JJB afloat.

I'm not vacuous enough to actually believe that I am going to look red carpet ready on a treadmill, my face might go a red carpet shade though. However I refuse to believe that Lycra is the only way to go when it comes getting your sweat on. I am prepared to do the leg work (literally) and find myself something that doesn't resemble a Star Trek uniform to wear.

(Definitely seen someone jogging in this)

I can't help but feel like I could be on a hiding to nothing considering the fact that team GB had Stella McCartney tailor making their sports wear and yet they still look like a bunch of goons (especially in the opening ceremony, I mean gold lame hoods, really Stella are we in Blazing Squad?) So if one of my very favourite designers can't produce a half decent looking piece of kit what chance do I stand at Sweaty Betty? And that's at a push that's pricey P.E. kit that Betty is.

(90's boy band or what?)

Despite my complete and utter loathing of sports gear, (and I'm pretty sure the rest of the female population shares this loathing, I mean who actually enters a JJB without wearing a balaclava to hide their identity?) the fashion industry, season after season, tries to convince me that sports gear is somehow the thing to be wearing. Frankly I'd rather wear a pubic hair jacket. Surely it's a clever ruse concocted by the government to enforce us obese Brits into sport by only providing gym kits to wear, because honestly why else send it down the catwalk? 

(Not feeling it Rag and Bone)

Maybe I need to look at it all a bit more objectively. After all I spend hours of my life tirelessly reading fashion magazines cover to cover, scrolling through blog posts, pinning and repinning up and coming trends on pinterest, and sportswear is one of those trends that seems to be sticking. I embrace all other trends regardless of just how hideous some of them can appear to be (who can forget wearing fake glasses for the entire summer of 2009.) And my advice is always 'don't look at a piece of clothing and think about whether you like it or not but whether it will look good on you, something you like can look awful on you where as something that looks great you will learn to love.'

I guess it all comes back to bad P.E. experiences in primary school, getting picked last, kids laughing at my wobbly legs when I ran, getting to the front of the line at rounders then just walking straight to the back again (yes violins out please) I mean if you hate Peter Andre your not gonna want a t-shirt with his face on it even if it is the trendiest thing on the planet (which it is.)

(Cannot be real)

This little self analogy has not bought me any closer to discovering a way of wearing something nice to the gym, I might just give up and wear my ball gown or just not go. There must be one aspect of sports wear that I like (feel like I'm in a mediation meeting and am having to think up a compliment for someone I hate) think Martha think! SWEATSHIRTS! I love a sweatshirt, I spent much of my trip to New York hunting down a Knicks sweatshirt and  failing miserably. There is something of a Lana Del Rey, gangster-ironic cool about wearing a sweatshirt. 

(I want one so bad)

This is a very big step, a piece of sportswear that I do not loathe. To sum up there are a few things that the stylish sportsmen can do to keep their gym kit on the upbeat. Listed below.

1. Keep it personal
There is no reason why a little bit of you can't make it's way into your wardrobe. If you like girly things invest in a pair of the Liberty for Nike trainers. You're a designer gal (with a bit o' spare cash) get yourself some Chanel dumbbells. You don't have to wear a lime green Lycra vest just because that's what they wear in the Powerade ads.

(Pretty and punchy)

2. Blast from the past
Save yourself a bomb by taking a trip to rokit.co.uk and nab yourself some sports gear from the only era when it looked any good, the 80's. Quirky American sports logos offer that cheer leader bounce and enthusiasm that we all could do with on the air stepper.

(Cute, huh?)

3. Accessories!
The only aspect of the Olympic kit I admire is the gold chains athletes tend to live in. Ghetto gold works wonders with sports wear, whether it's a big ol' pair of creole earrings or a name necklace just add a stick of bubble gum and you got yourself easy-breezy-edgy-suburban-aloof-chic in no time.

(On the money)

4. Stick it to the man
Don't be dictated to by the major sports chains. You don't actually need to wear a sweat absorbing, aerodynamic super vest if all you're gonna be doing is 10 minutes on the exercise bike. Your ordinary t-shirt is not gonna catch fire.

5. Don't wear your pyjamas
I know that no one actually wears pyjamas to the gym but you know what I mean. So many people make the biggest effort to look their very worst, it's like you're trying your very hardest to look ugly. Stick that 'I heart Christmas 1999' top back in the draw buddy!

6. Look elsewhere
If you are neurotic enough to buy actual sportswear do me a favour and don't visit the high street chains (JJB, Sports Direct, blah blah blah.) Oysho, Zara's sister store, does nice jazzy little sports numbers that just fit the bill and at a very reasonable price. (oysho.com)

(Oysho)

So there you are, a comprehensive guide to sports wear from the girl who doesn't know how to use a treadmill. I wouldn't listen to me either.

Happy Olympics everyone, see ya in four years!

Good Will

This is the part of my blog where I usually apologise for being late. And yes I am late, what is it, coming on for a month now? So rather than boring you all with yet another apology I thought I would make use of the fact that my blog is ALWAYS late and that I am a useless journalist who probably doesn't deserve a job in the industry, and turn it into this weeks blog feature. This is, therefore, a blog about will power.

(This is what my life, the daughter of the owner of an ice cream parlour, is like, but with a little less tash)

Once upon a time I wrote a blog about not caring, Laundry Day Living- give it a whirl, and I was talking about what a busy little bumble bee I was being and how sometimes I take on too much and need to slow myself down. Well if you were a big fan of that  particular post you might not want to bother with this one because  this week I will be talking about how I need to speed myself up.


I, my friend, am in a slump. Those of you who know me, understand that I like to keep myself busy. If you have ever looked through my filofax (yup sad enough to have owned one from the age of 16) you will see weeks of filled appointments, tasks that I've set myself, deadlines that I need to meet. Well that filofax has been looking awful lonely recently. I started my summer so well, complaining about having nothing to do so therefore volunteering myself to every news publication I could and doing a whole 6 hours of solid exercise a week, I was just about ready to take down Mike Tyson. But now my filofax is slumping and my lightening legs are looking pretty slumpy too.

(I hate Cassey Ho, I was doing her exercises and was never smiling like that, she must be on crack, at least)

I realised I was in a slump (can I just take a moment to assure readers that I am in a slump, not a flump which is a British marshmallow piece of confectionery, as I understand that this would have been confusing) when I actually cried, CRIED, real tears when I couldn't find my make up wipes. I was practically hysterical when I later couldn't find my pyjama top either and as I lay topless under my summer duvet sobbing I realised I honestly needed to sort my life out if it has become that uneventful that not having matching pyjamas is enough to set me off. Those of you who know me will know that this completely out of the ordinary because A.) I am so emotionally unavailable that I was once called 'inhuman' for not producing a tear at My Sister's Keeper (please don't judge me) and B.) all of my pyjamas look like they were picked out by Carol Thatcher.

(I wish I was looking a patch as attractive as this in my nightwear, though preferably not reading 'House and Gardens')

I am sure each and everyone of you has been in my position. That position being where you adopt an 'f**k it' attitude. This can be caused by many things, and can also cause many consequences. Whether you are in a quandary about which London post code you should live in for your September internship, or perhaps you've watched a sad film (Magic Mike to be precise) or you've just been on that bread free diet for far too long eventually somethings gotta give and you say 'f**k it.' Before you know it you've gone into your overdraft buying yourself solo Cactus Jacks shots and playing a chicken nugget eating competition with yourself. Sad times. It was this attitude that had landed me with such non events in my life  that I cried at the loss of Boots own make up wipes.


My point is, once you've slipped and you've tasted that sweet taste of freedom (wheat in my case) it's very hard to shake off. I mean there's not a lot of point hitting the air stepper at the gym if you're only planning on going home and secretly stuffing your face with your sisters Haribo 'fruity frogs', low point. And no matter how many times I tell myself that tomorrow I will eat only what a rabbit would I still wind up munching on a piece of chocolate cake for breakfast. So what is the solution how do you get your will power back, stop loafing around and start acting like a real human being and not Homer Simpson? Cause at the moment the thought of typing up essays for free (ie like this, for no one but yourself to read) and eating food that comes off trees sounds awfully unappealing when I know what I'm missing, ie lying on the beach feeding off fried cheese.


The short answer is you just have to do it. Have one productive day and the rest will follow. You have to give yourself a scare, stop leaving everything cause inevitably it will get bigger and more and more difficult to deal with, my filofax is getting fuller as is my stomach. As Nike would say, 'Just Do It' (please don't copyright slap me.) I often find clothes shopping slams me back to reality. If I naively take a certain size (please, I'm a lady) into the changing rooms and find out I need the next size up, it's like being faced by Gok Wan but not, because he's not there to give you a hug or a makeover.

(Compulsory Made in Chelsea reference)

Other things you could do to re motivate yourself is buy yourself some stuff to be motivational about. Like say you wanna get loads of work done, buy yourself some shit fancy filofax and pens and pencils (I am currently looking at a lovely mulberry filofax on ebay.) You wanna lose a stone? Buy yourself some dumbbells. You will, if you're a poor student like me, use these items because it will be a total waste of money otherwise and let's face it putting stuff on ebay just to have people dispute you the whole time is no fun. However if you are rich and have this money to throw away then I can't help you. 

Above all put pen to paper. Writing things down always, ALWAYS, makes things seem more achievable. My very favourite artist, Rob Ryan, once very wisely said; 'Why does putting things down on paper somehow make things seem more manageable? Is it because it is a constructive act when inside you feel destroyed?' Well OK, I don't feel 'destroyed' but he was bound to exaggerate, he's an artist, but he is also a grown up and successful which must make him right. So get your parker pens at the ready!

(Well there you are then)

I think the main thing is to have a starting point, something to kick you into first gear. Mine was this blog. Martha Thursday is always about being late and making excuses, and putting things off and yet here I am on a Thursday writing a blog. A good place to start? I think so. I am almost tempted to rename myself Martha Friday so that I can claim that I am, in fact, early. An even better place to start. 


Oh filofax, how I've missed you.


Though I might add that I decided that doing this blog would be my starting point for re motivating myself on Sunday, so I've already procrastinated for four days. Oh well the sun doesn't shine every day! God only help me when the Olympics start...


Speaking of which Olympic theme post next week kids.

Whistle down the wind

So hey, how are ya? Its been a while right? You might ask what has happened to the terribly organised Ms Thursday from two weeks back. I have been being terribly organised elsewhere. Writing for my columnist job over at BSB (take a look if you haven't already.) And sorting out deposits et al with robbing estate agents for my flat in Chelsea, yes CHELSEA!

I will give you a moment to weep with jealousy.

I promised you on my last post that I would be writing about true love, this will not be the case as that idea is now based on something that happened sooooo long ago that it's a little irrelevant, and I like to think Fashion Nerd is pretty up to speed. 

This week I have been up in London to go on several viewings around pokey studio apartments, where I would, quite frankly, be better buying an IKEA wardrobe parking it outside my place of work and living in that for a month but I feel like that would be frowned upon at the Putney Bridge. In an effort to make the experience a little less painful I invited my dear friend up with me to reward ourselves for hours (maybe an hour and a half at a push) house hunting with a slamming night out on the town.

(We did almost look as out of place as this)

So we headed out of our hostel (I know who do I think I'm kidding with my Chelsea flat?) dressed to the nines and travelled the lengthily length it takes to get from Willesdon Green to the Kings Road. We very nearly turned around and went home and not because our feet were hurting. Without wanting to sound completely self involved and vain beyond belief we received a lot of unwanted attention. You know the drill, whistles, 'wahayys' and someone even took it to the next level with a 'Yo.' NO.

It's not like we were walking down the Kings Road dressed like friggin Barbarella, our going out style reflects classy teen vogue shoots (I know that we're not teens, but no one dresses their age in that mag) not an FHM shoot. At one stage a group of builders, why is it always builders?, called his group of mates to have a gawk. I mean come on! Have you no shame?

(See what I mean? No teen is that stylish, we usually haven't moved out of flared jeans by this stage)

What I want to know is what I am meant to do in these situations? What do these men who are, let's be honest, often batting way above their weight expect me to say? (You think I'm being cocky but one man actual had a centre parting and sandals with socks, I like to think I could do slightly better.) Are they expecting me to shout 'Hey buddy! Get up on this!' 

(This could be any of us back in 1993)

I actually find it humiliating and I'm not the only one with the Daily Mail reporting last week that 3/4 of us think it's inappropriate. And I It's bad enough to have to take the tube and then stagger through Chelsea in your going out gear without some toothless truck driver pointing out to everyone the fact that your legs are out. No wonder women were tutting at us, we were encouraging disorderly conduct in the royal borough! 

Maybe I'm just being really uptight about it? I mean some women genuinely love this attention. I have this, now, ex friend of mine who actually used to count the amount of car honks she used to get and would practically produce a pie chart every time we saw her like we were meant to be impressed or something? I suppose it could be considered flattering that out of everyone on the tube, the man who has to cross his legs to hide his 'pop up and say hello' has chosen to sit opposite you and stare at you in a creepy way whilst trying to entice you by provocatively eating his salt and vinegar crisps.

(It was on a par)

It's not so much the fact that men are enjoying my outfit that I object to because, as my friend pointed out, 'at least we know we don't look shit', its the way this point is addressed to me. I am not a football team I do not need to you to shout 'get in' and 'wahaay' for me to understand that you appreciate my choice of outfit. If you came over, tapped me on the shoulder and politely told me how much you appreciated my wardrobe choice and pointed out what an excellent eye for colour coordination I have then that would be just lovely. Especially if you then bought me a 'Flawless' cocktail (costing £35,000 at Movida's night club London.) Then I would understand your appreciation rather than feeling like I shouldn't walk home alone.

(He's got it right but he's obviously gay)

Many people would still argue that it is my fault for attracting unwanted attention. I'm sorry but am I meant to go out sporting the costume cupboard from the Sound of Music to avoid getting an 'oi oi'? (and even Maria got lusted over by Captain Von Trapp.)  At one point I said 'I'd feel less self conscious wearing a cucumber costume right now.' Why should I feel intimidated by my choice of dress? Contrary to popular belief, it's not unwanted attention. God forbid, two years of being single and someone finding me attractive on the Kings Road is a blessing, it's just the wrong form of attention. 

So fellas, builders, van drivers from across the nation open those lug holes, for the sake of myself, your wives, your daughters, your sisters, please refrain from the following phrases: Cor' blimey, yeesss, wahaaay, oi oi, take your belts off, I just wanna bang her' etc. The following actions are also pretty taboo: high fives, whistles, car honking and absolutely no way ever do you squeeze my bum unless we have been bumping and grinding for at least 6 minutes. Follow these rules and you are far more likely not to receive a double V sign from myself or the rest of the female population.

As it is, the only drink I got offered for the whole night was several swigs from a cheap wine bottle that belonged to a very sweaty man who was later thrown out for being incapable of speech. Charming.