Tourist Information

Hey there kids! How have you all been these last few weeks? Those of you who are friends of mine as well as readers will be aware of the fact that for the past week I have been living the high life in New York New York (so good they named it twice.) Or at least pretending to. 


Yes I was staying at the Waldorf Astoria, the go to get away for the likes of Serena Van Der Woodson, Carrie and Big (yes I am aware that none of these people are real.) But I wasn't downing champagne cocktails on the Starlight Roof but rather scurrying through the lobby with Starbucks and sneaking to the closest diner for chocolate chip pancakes to avoid the extortionate prices.

(The Waldorf, yes I'm showing off)

As I was stomping around the town trying to keep up with the New York pace, I turned to my mother, who was clutching a map like it was her first born, and said; 'hurry up, we look like proper tourists.' She then pointed out that we were proper tourists, we had never been to New York before, in fact we had never even left Europe before. This then bought to light my unhealthy obsession, disguising the fact that I am a tourist.


I'd never realised it before but it's something I do every time I go away! I don't know why but I seem to relate being a tourist to being a very shameful thing. When I was in London a few months ago, I was sat in Sloane Square and someone asked me for directions, and I took great delight in the fact that they thought I was a local, like somehow I had succeeded in deceiving people with my elaborate, non tourist clothing. 


When I go away I never dress like I usually would, and I don't mean that I adjust my clothes to the weather, I mean I actually adjust my style. Before I jetted off to New York I was sad enough to scroll through the Satorialist to gauge the city's style. One day we decided to go to the MoMA and I was pretentious enough to not only wear a Hermes scarf around my neck but I also IRONED my clothes. Who on earth actually irons their clothes anymore unless they're using their GHDs for a quick once over? 

(Pretty sure I achieved the same effortless glam that this Satorialist model does)

I also decided that I was so 'street' that I would be able to cope with wearing heels all day in the baking heat. I thought this would act as the ultimate tourist disguise as people would look at my feet and obviously think; 'well she must know the streets if she's brave enough to wear those shoes round New York.' The plan inevitably failed when we decided to go on the ferry over to Liberty Island and I just look like an effing moron tripping all over the place wearing heels on a boat. And my cover was completely blown when mother purchased a Statue of Liberty foam tiara and wore it for the remainder of the day. 

(Yupp that very crown, this is not my mother)

I realised just how tragic I was when I caught myself saying 'thank you' in an American accent, shortly followed by a cursory "'ey! I'm walkin' 'ere!" which I'm sure screamed out the fact I was a tourist because any self respecting New Yorker would rather get hit by a cab than utter those words. The truth was that we were the perfect tourists, we were like Buddy the elf for Christ's sake! We were walking out in front of the traffic, if there was syrup on the table we used it, we had great trouble with the fast moving escalators and by the end of the trip we still had no clue what a dime was. 

("'ey! I'm walkin' 'ere!")

So yes I am no longer in denial. My name is Martha and I'm a tourist. I really don't know what my problem is. Maybe it's because I live in a tourist town, or maybe it's because I'm so self interested I actually think people will notice and care about the fact I'm touring. 


There we are, I do believe that admitting I am a tourist is the first stage to getting over my fear of tourism. I did learn one thing from my secret identity though. I should really make more of an effort with my clothes when I'm not on holiday, it's amazing what a little ironing can do and how nice your hair can look when you actually do something with it!


I say that but I'm currently wearing a long sleeved grey t-shirt, ground breaking.

Princess Diaries

Happy Wednesday everybody! Yes it may be Friday now but it was most definitely a Wednesday when I wrote this, so there! 

This week I was gonna write about the pros of Summer as I understand that perhaps not all of you have such an irrational aversion to it as I do. However after looking out of the window and seeing a whole load of mist and no sign of the sun wearing his hat, I just wasn't in the mood to sing his praises (his being the sun.) Though I promise you this weeks blog subject is as equally joyful as a full beaming sun. This weeks post is about Princesses. 

Not a totally random subject when you consider the Diamond Jubilee that is coming up at the beginning of June. Being an employee at my mother's ice cream parlour we have been asked to celebrate the jubilee in style and come dressed as a Royal. I, of course, have opted to be the Duchess of Cambridge, (princess Kate to you and I) because of our obvious similarities in both looks and personality (sense the sarcasm here.)

(You would swear that myself and Kate were separated at birth, aside from the ten year age gap)

It was a no brainer for me, of course I want to dress up as the princess, I mean who wouldn't? But the more I think about it, it is a little tragic to still take such delight in the idea of being a Princess. I am a 20 year old career obsessed, highly competitive aspiring journalist and yet I would happily throw all my hard work and dreams away in order to have the delight of wearing a tiara (and not just a plastic pink one on my birthday which I will no doubt donate to a male in a night club.)

(If you see an intoxicated male wearing this, it's most likely mine)

So what is it about Princesses that provokes even the most cynical romantic (I'm referring to myself here) to throw away all of their 'strong independent woman' values in favour of a life of curtsying? 


Well from birth, little girls all over the world are fed a pack of lies. Glancing through my 'congratulations on your new baby cards' (as in the ones my mum was given, not my own baby, heaven forbid), there are countless 'Congratulations on your little Princess' cards. How many fathers across the world build their daughters hopes up by telling them they are Princesses? I'm not exaggerating when I say that I truly believed that I was a real Princess once I was fed this lie and I remember the bitter disappointment I faced after my mother revealed to me that actually this wasn't true after I had been shot down with laughter by my friends at school when I revealed my secret Royal identity as a Princess.


Lets take the case of Sara Crewe, the little girl from the book/film (no one read the book) A Little Princess. She insisted on telling the whole of that boarding school that she was a Princess despite having no royal connections whatsoever, and refused to be told otherwise (no wonder Miss Minchin was a bit shirty with her.) And this was all due to an over indulgent father and too many fairy stories.

(He's lying to you Sara)

I mean its no wonder we all believe that we should be Princesses. From the age of about 2 upwards we are plonked in front of Disney movie after Disney movie, so that in the end we know no different. We are taught that no matter what goes wrong in our lives 'some day our prince will come' and we will live happily ever after. And I can't deny that I still don't possess this naive view.

(And another one bites the dust)

As I am writing this I am watching Cinderella with my sister and I have that same stupid grin on my face when she sings 'so this is love mmmmm.' Because I rescued a mouse from my cats talons the other day and have unstacked the dish washer more than 5 times in the past year I am convinced that me and old Cindy have too much in common and that I too deserve to be a Princess. Maybe my interpretation of what being a Princess means has changed but still I have bored my family and friends half to death about the fact that education is fabulous and all, but eventually I will marry a gorgeous charming husband from Chelsea and live happily ever after. 

(My modern day equivalent to Prince Charming)

Maybe Disney should do some follow up movies about how after 4 years of marriage and a spin off reality TV series, Cinders realised that Prince Charming had lost his charm and no matter how much Rogaine he used he still has a receding hair line. So after a passionate affair with Buttons she moved to the big city and now runs her own cleaning business with her mice friends, rather than this 'happily ever after' nonsense.


But then again maybe its healthy to infuse today's youth with optimism and the notion that 'everything will be alright in the end.' Unfortunately depression, anxiety and pessimism runs in my family but every Monday, at 11pm after an episode of Made in Chelsea and several glasses of wine, my faith that dreams can come true is restored and that there are really people, in real life, who do do their weekly shop at Harrods or, even better, have it delivered. And maybe its not just a silly fairy story after all.

(Oh how delightful!)

I know Kate Middleton is stupidly posh and fancy but she was a commoner and she's now a Princess (Duchess whatever.) And Harry, as moronic as he may be, is still on the market so maybe becoming a Princess isn't such a ridiculous dream. Plus they're are so pretty, no one can resent a Princess. Everyone loves a pretty Princess.

(Princess Grace, how lovely you are...were)

I think I may be more likely to be one of the step sisters, forcing my little sister to bring tea in my own huge town house, though she best not start getting any ideas, I don’t think I could bare it if she became a Princess and I didn’t. I think Drizella and Anastasia were misunderstood, they were just a sucker to the fairy stories like we are. When Anastasia hears of the Prince's ball and says 'I'm so eligible' you can just see the desperate Princess dream sparkle in her caroon eyes that exists in every little girl.

So yes, I want to be a Princess, that is the moral of this blog. Also  I would just like to make it clear to my readers that other princesses (Disney or otherwise) are available and this blog is not exclusively in support of Cinderella.


Have a lovely week, and next week I hope I will be in a good enough mood to write something positive about summer.

An argument against Summer

So weekly, well if only it was weekly, excuse for being late is that I have been a busy busy bunny completing my second year of uni. Yuppp I'm all moved out and only one more year away from being an actual grown up and not just pretending to be one with the help of my student loan. And with the end of uni brings the beginning of summer.


Now I, unlike most, do not see summer as this glorious, uplifting, fun-filled fest of freedom. Even as a little girl I was always far more of a winter lover, though this was most likely due to a desire to be different and dislike of things that were popular amongst my peers which also lead to an irrational hate of Princess Aurora.

(ain't got no time for this chick)

This, I don't wanna say hatred, but annoyance with summer has continued into my adult life and so for this blog I will present an argument both for and against summer.


So the first reason I don't need summer in my life is that you have to go home. Don't get me wrong I love my family and my friends at home but I don't really actually like the place. When you're in uni it feels like Disney Land half the time. You go from having the best time in the most exciting city to coming back to reality with a bump. You return, as a 20 year old who's lives and breaths a cosmopolitan lifestyle (and drink) to a little old country bumpkin patch of greenery where if you asked for a cosmopolitan they'd send you up to tesco for a copy of the magazine.

(I just find it very hard to get excited about scrumpy cider with this lot)

And it's not just the place it's the people. You have to face the locals. Any quarrels that have previously been brushed under the carpet whilst you've been at uni suddenly rear their ugly head and the politics of the town come back into play. This is especially awkward when your town is as about as large as a football pitch so you are bound to see someone you dislike about 3 times a day. You also inevitably change whilst you've been away and something you might now find hilarious just doesn't wash with the locals.


I find that everyone tends to have a 'travelling friend.' I know I do. A friend who inevitably disappears for about half the summer to see the world and you have to be satisfied with google maps. Now I don't blame my globe trotting friend in the slightest, if I had the money and wasn't quite so inadequate I think I'd hot foot it outta this town in a flash but this leaves me with an empty Filofax and finding myself on endless trips to Crealy great adventure park (it's not great) with the family to prevent myself from slitting my wrists with paper scissors out of boredom.

(feel my pain?)

Now I am a picture of anxiety. I can literally worry myself about anything. Last week I was worried that I wear my hair up too often. This is why university suits me, I can worry myself away at a piece of work and keep busy and so long as I'm crossing things off my 'to do' list, feel fine. This is why summer is not good for me. The majority of normal and sane human beings enjoy summer for the following reason; it is care free and you have nothing to do. This sends me into a blind panic. I worry about the fact I haven't got anything to worry about, I hate the fact my Filofax is empty. I spend my days panicking that I'm not volunteering my services to a local paper and the fact that sitting home watching friends is not furthering my career path. I am a freak, I understand this.


I find that summer is also the ultimate test of friendship and this can prove very depressing. You spend your whole year saying 'oh yes we definitely HAVE to meet up in the summer when we're allll free' to friends you don't get to see all that often. And then when summer finally comes and no one organises to meet up with anyone you come to the sad realisation that if you're not gonna meet up with them in the summer you're probably not going to meet up with them at all. You will never see them again, or at least not until your wedding day by which point you won't care because you'll be wearing Vera Wang and drinking Moet. 


The final reason why summer just gets up in my grill (other than the obvious sunburn etc) is just how inadequate it makes me feel. I get to summer and I realise that every item of clothing that I own is absolutely hideous and I realise that I'm not this fashion goddess I thought I was. In the winter no one realises that you dress like Kerry Katona because you buy one gorgeous coat and so long as you've got that on you could well be Caggie Dunlop (or someone you find very stylish, Carrie Bradshaw maybe?) But then summer comes and you can't wear a coat, every drop of your outfit has to be delicious because all of it is on display. This then means rather than spending my money joining my globe trotting friend on her travels I will be emptying my bank account on asos to try and look half decent next to that bitch on the beach.

(I spend my summer hoping that some how, I will end up looking like this)

The summer also means diet time so that I don't look like a pasty member of the 'Little Britain' cast on the beach. So I spend the whole summer going to BBQ's saying the compulsory line of 'yeah I always lose my appetite in the summer it's too hot to eat' which is the biggest lie, in reality I would swap my Chanel quilted handbag for hot dog sausage and twister. 


So yep. That was my argument for and against summer except there wasn't really a 'for' bit about it. I do like some bits of summer, like staying at friend's houses and maxi dresses and holidays but obviously just not as much as I dislike it. It would also have made this blog far far far too long. I hope you're all sat there feeling as depressed about your lack of uni work and flabby white arms as I am. I've got to go, I think I can hear the ice cream van...

You Shall Go to the Ball

I’m telling you now, it is an absolute miracle that this blog is up, on time, looking half decent. I have, this last week been a hermit either serving ice creams in the rain at my parents ice cream parlour or sat at my very sick little lap top typing up an essay about gay bars, so typing anything on top of that is practically torture. On top of this, my usual space in the kitchen for banging out blogs is currently under siege by a burly group of grubby builders drilling and banging so that the cogs in my mind are whirring even harder to try and make sense of anything while I sit awkwardly on the edge of my fold out bed, with my lap top balanced on my knees and a dog, with a bucket collar on his head for company.

My only refuge this week has been dipping into ELLE and VOGUE in the evenings which is where this week’s botched together blog subject has emerged from.

(I really want this dress in my life)

Ball gowns. I’m sure this sentiment has got several of you smiling already. Do you remember when you were younger and your only aspiration for the future was a ball gown? I used to sit for hour after hour talking to myself in my room, envisaging myself walking slowly down a large carpeted stair case, wearing a dress made by mice out of magical fairy wings, with one curl of hair that’s slipped out of place brushing against my perfectly powered neck. Whilst Daniel Radcliffe waited at the bottom of the stairs (yes you heard me right, luckily that obsession has passed on to made in Chelsea pastures.)

(The amount of times I prayed that a nana from Genovia would show up in my life)

I am now 20 years old and I can quite safely say that nothing of that sort has remotely ever happened to me, I do have several holes in my clothes from gerbils, but not quite Cinderella. And yet I have not gotten over this notion as I still walk slowly down stairs in stately homes, and neither it seems has the rest of the world. ELLE and VOGUE both announced the opening of the V&A’s ball gown exhibition this summer and VOGUE did a whole feature on it, with pictures of glorious gowns, spectacular enough to make you cry, (I know I did, the combination of too much work and a glass of wine and I was hysterical.)

(This, this needs no introduction)

Now this is all very lovely, and yes I was really pleased to be relieved from by gay bar duties to look at some ball gowns, but by the end of it I was just feeling sadder because I was sat there in a dressing gown and not a ball gown. Why don’t ball gowns have a place in modern society? I think my whole life would be improved if I could hop and skip off to uni each day wearing Valentino, or at least something similar that Primark’s reproduced.

OK it’s not entirely accurate to say that ball gowns are completely obsolete. Katie Price did a pretty good job of wearing an outrageous ball gown to her wedding to poor old Pete (don’t get mixed up with my very similar looking father Pete Cliff.) And let’s not forget those Gypsies; they crack out identical reproductions of our favourite fairy tale dresses, something the Disney shop would produce only bigger and better and with more plastic on it. So when did ball gowns become trash culture? And more importantly why?

(That she can keep)

If we think about our modern day princesses, you know heroines in movies and society, a ball gown is no longer the compulsory uniform. Society would argue that if Lorraine Candy (editor of ELLE) or Meryl Streep started popping to the corner shop or turning up at meetings  in ball gowns, they might not evoke the kick ass attitude that we love them for.  This emerged with power dressing in the 80’s, women wanted to be taken seriously in both the work place and life in general so a more androgynous look emerged. Those of you who know me will know I sport both a big purple power blazer and a women’s rights attitude (mentally, I don’t where a badge or anything) but androgyny isn’t always the prettiest peach in the picnic.

This season we have seen a re-emergence of the ‘pretty.’ Meadham Kirchhoff sent flurries of tulle and pastels down the runway and Louis Vuitton displayed lavish lace and princess tiaras. As you can imagine I was delighted and was soon rummaging through my dressing up box in search of a plastic tiara. But of course the critics followed arguing that by dressing like a girl we were harping back to an age when women were objects and by being pretty we were concentrating on aesthetic rather than brains.

(I feel pretty- Meadham Kirchhoff s/s 12)

Myself and fellow style blogger Susie Bubble disagree. Why should women apologise for looking like women? Why should I have to dress like a man to get myself taken seriously? If anything this girly trend is a step forward, we’re making the point that you don’t have to dress like a hard core lesbian to get your voice heard, were pretty and we’re political.

So yes, that is my argument for the reinstatement of ball gowns into everyday life. That and the fact that no one looks ugly in a ball gown. I hope that next time I knock back a jager bomb I will be wearing a full skirted Dior number and have glass slippers on my feet. I understand that this is quite unlikely seeing as I am unfortunately not Lorraine Candy so my gospel is perhaps not quite so influential. But if you think about it they are just a trend, if plastic clothes can come back into fashion then why can’t ball gowns?

I also feel a little like jeans have had their day. I can hear people saying ‘but they’re so easy!’ Wrong ball gowns are easy; you only have to wear one item of clothing. Jeans are lazy, just something to go with an outfit (says she who’s wearing a pair with a hole in the crotch right now.)

And so to end, here is a gallery of some gowns to oooh and ahhhh at. Shall we dance?

(ahhh Dior, let me count the ways)

(Valentino)

(Ellie Saab)

(Mcqueen of course)

(John Galliano- is it too soon?)

Just and end note this piece of writing is 1070 words long, why can’t my essay go this well?

Boys or Butlers?

So this is like one of those awkward situations where you casually haven't spoken to a close friend for months, not because you hate them but because you're a very busy very glamorous bee and then you bump into them and its a bit like 'oooo awk sitch' and you have to make the decision whether to acknowledge the fact that you have been out of the picture for months or whether to just pretend nothings happened.


Well I am going to be the grown up in this situation and admit to my mistakes and recognise the fact that yes there has been no Fashion Nerd for 3 weeks and I will apologise (as I do every week) for my absence. As always, I do have an excuse, I was off in wonderful London at first pretending to be the obnoxious rich kid we all hate, then I had a presentation, then 2 film packages, a critical appraisal, a work book and then a holiday in Wales (not quite Chelsea darling) and this week although I have been frantically applying for work placements and doing essay plans and here I am begging you lot for forgiveness (well not begging rather, assuming you'll still give us a read.)

(My mood since returning from London, 'don't care how, I want it now!')

Anyway, speaking of London, which I love to do and have been boring EVERYONE with my constant London verbal diarrhoea. I was accompanied by my wonderful pal who as well as being lovely and Welsh and was wonderful company, also provided me with a blog idea. As we strolled through Hyde Park she suddenly announced to me,


"Imagine if I just turned round to you now and said 'I hate you, I hate everything about you, I don't know why I ever bothered spending time with you, you just piss me off so much, I don't want to see you EVER again!"


I, of course, was slightly perplexed and slightly worried as to why this thought might have entered one of my best friends heads. But then after we both agreed this would be absolutely devastating for us both and, because we were hungover, acted out what our reactions might be she said;


"Well we say stuff like that to our boyfriends all the time and it really doesn't matter, cause you can say what you want to 'em and they just don't give a shit really." (Imagine all that in a welsh accent.)

(heartbreaking but we put our boyfs through it most days)

When she said 'our boyfriends' she was obviously forgetting that I am as single as a singleton who's eaten loads of sour cream and chive pringles then stood under the mistletoe. But that's beside the point, the point is she's incredibly right. Some of my most upsetting fights have been when me and a girlfriend have fallen out, I've cried far more over them than any boy.


 But it also took me back to when I actually was in a relationship and one of my favourite things was to just abuse him. I loved the fact that I could shout and scream at him like a banshee and he would just sit there and then 2 hours later we'd watch midsomer murders together (his choice not mine.) But I know I'm not the only one, my trendy friend once told her boyfriend, on a night out, that he was pathetic and she 'never wanted to see his ugly little face again.' The very next day they could have been Will and Kate themselves (she'll appreciate that comparison.)

(Pretty sure Kate just told Wills she never wanted to see his ugly little face again)

The more I think about it the more I realise the real motives of wanting a boyfriend. In the breaks between filming our news package me and my other fringey single pal would discuss our want for a relationship and our reasons for wanting them. They consisted of the following reasons:
-They don't have a choice about going to things with us, e.g. the new twilight film has just come out and all your friends have vetoed then boyfriend has to go.
-Someone to take you out to dinner.
-Someone to do your washing up if they come and stay.
-Someone to present you with random bunches of flowers.
-Someone to come and stay if your home alone.
-Someone to be at your beckon call if you're bored.
-Someone to have a massive argument with and it not matter.

(I don't understand how men find it hard to succeed with women, this is the one simple requirement)

See the evidence is quite clear, I, we, want a relationship purely for abusing purposes. Even in marriage, my mother would kick off big time if my father did not present her with a cup of coffee in bed every morning and quite right too. Last summer when I was presented with glee tickets and had a two night stay up in London (sigh) it would have been fantastically easy and simple if I had a boyfriend to force to come with me, but after months of begging and pleading I resulted to actually paying my very poor best friend to come with me.


So yeah, that's my new criteria for a boyfriend, someone who looks like they could be easily manipulated and maybe who I like a little bit and don't find too annoying, but annoying enough so that I have a reason to shout at them.


My mum just thinks I should get a butler.


Also I wrote this yesterday, that's how prepared I was this week, next week fashion theme of some sort.

Forgive me Lagerfeld for I have sinned

So this week has been an expensive week. I'm the kind of girl who will literally spend money at any excuse. My mum gave me like a couple of hundred quid last week because I'm so delightful and I was acting like I had won £45 million jackpot. It's nearly gone. I was paying for other people's taxis, other peoples jager bombs, which is a true shocker for me because I hold on to my own jager bombs like they're my new born child coated in gold dust.  And you know like when you go to the kebabby and you're counting out your coppers to afford a small chips. No not me, I went to yo yo burger (for those none Bristolians this is the equivalent to burger king) and actually bought so much that I qualified for free chips.


So anyway this all came about because my trendy friend had her group of other trendy friends down to stay and that of course meant spending £80 on two nights out and acting like it was Christmas or my birthday (which is in 6 days.) One of these lovely friends wore a gorgeous borderie anglaise white dress and I thought she looked truly Divine. But apparently a little too Divine, previous comments she had received were 'virgin' and 'frigid.'

(Spring/ Summer 2012 collection of lady like dresses, apologies for the huge gap, computers are silly. Clockwise from top left, Alexander Mcqueen, Chanel, Derek Lam, Jil Sander, Louis Vuitton and Ralph Lauren.)

These were of course boy comments (see blog post The man the myth and the shirt dress for more detail.) But on my hysterical shopping spree, I had come across some rather innocent looking outfits. Topshop was teaming with white and even the grungy Urban Outfitters was brimming with lace and knee length skirts. But whats funnier is that I really wanted them.


At the age of 17 I would have rather have worn a bin bag than a knee length skirt, fair enough, at times I looked like Josie Jump on acid when but still. So why would we want to wear outfits that encourage every man and woman alive to presume we are as about as sexually active as a habit wearing teddy bear?

(See what I mean?)

When I was 17, I wore skirts that Jodie Marsh would have framed because I wanted to make people think I was cooler and edgier and sluttier and more vile than I actually was. Truth is I used to (and still do) rush home to watch My Parents are Aliens and spent about 50% of my pocket money on cross stitch supplies. And if any real boy had approached me I think I would have actually cried.

(Typical weekend outfit)

This led me to thinking that maybe I have spent my whole life dressing as something I'm not. When I was 17 I dressed like Joan Collins. And now that I am near enough Joan's age, and actually am a smutty (don't wanna describe myself as slutty) shabby, tramp I'm trying to cover it up by dressing like Princess Ann or Snow White everyday.


When celebrities have spent all their money buying their friends giant robot rabbits or have blown up their livers after doing too many superior jager bombs they go to rehab. Does the same work in the fashion world? Because I spent too many months of my life wearing tights with brick walls printed on them does that now mean I will be spending the next few years trying to recompense that by wearing completely neutral and typically pretty, blank canvas clothing? Am I trying to make up for past fashion sins?


It's like I've had a substance abuse problem. In my case being hideous patterned tights paired with denim skirts. And now I'm having to send myself away to the fashion nunnery in order to pay for my sins. Maybe the fashion houses are aware of our previous fashion hangovers, maybe its just a coincidence or perhaps it is just trendy and wonderfully flattering to wear a lot of white in a beautifully innocent way? All I know is that I'm embracing this second chance trend as if I was Madonna herself (the saint not the sinner, I mean singer.)

(Madonna definitely not embracing the trend)

I am definitely being something I'm not though. I don't think I would go down too well with members of the Clergy. Also I don't know what to tell you about Crucifix jewellery. I wear it in a kind of rebellious ironic way, like the way urban outfitters intended, but maybe that's just what they want me to think.


Anyway that about wraps it up really. Can't promise you that I'm gonna be terribly prompt with my next entry, seeing as I am in Leeds all this week and then IT'S MY BIRTHDAY ON SATURDAY!


Also don't know why on the last post its telling you to go to a Kylie Minogue site, I don't want you to do that.


Over and out kids.

What I would do with £45 million

So yes it is a Thursday, a whole Thursday too late, I know how totally rubbish I am, just skipping a week of blog. I am useless, I don't need telling. But sometimes even us divinely beautiful, talented, fashion bloggers need a holiday especially when birthday cake is calling!

(Last time I wrote my blog)

So this week I know I said I was going to do fashion hangovers but that was way back in the land before time when I was still writing my blog so that idea is a little bit past it now. I am still following requests and house mate requests this week was what would you do if you won the £45 million euromillions jack pot. So here we go.


We've all had this conversation, 'well i would give most of the money to charity' or 'I'd put it in the bank and live off the interest' or 'I'd pay off all my debts and just be happy and live inconspicuously in my normal routine.' I'm sorry, let me just hit snooze on my alarm because you just bored me to sleep. Yeah ok you can do that stuff if you won like a couple of mill but we're talking about £45 million. I would definitely be showing off my ridiculous amount of wealth as best I can to display just how friggin special God must think I am to have selected me to win.


So here's how I'd start off. I would get a solid gold, fully working, hippogryth shaped jumbo jet to take me to Paris where it would drop me in L'avenue de Montaigne where I would make a trip to Dior and buy the most outrageously ridiculous dress in there (I think I may have mentioned this in a previous blog but here's a reminder, I'm getting deja-ecrit.) I would put this dress on and where it out of the shop (like you did with shoes when you were kids) after kindly asking the shop assistant to dispose of my rags, and I would parade down the street wearing that dress.

(Oh hi I just won the lottery, how do you do?)

Next thing on my list would be to see the Queen naked. I don't care how it happens it's just gotta be done because I'm pretty sure not any old bum can see the Queen naked. I would do this whilst eating the worlds biggest burger with Kermit the frog, because I can. I would then order the world's most expensive cocktail (Movida's 'flawless' coming in at £35,000) and throw it in Robbie Williams' face.

(Flawless-a large measure of Louis XII cognac, half a bottle of Cristal Rose champagne, some brown sugar, angostura bitters and a few flakes of 24-carat edible gold leaf. And at the bottom of the crystal glass is an 11-carat white diamond ring and it's going all over his smug face.)

Moving swiftly on I would request Jeeves, as in Ask Jeeves, to order me the most expensive gigolo, maybe even Hugh Hefner just purely to tell them they were bad in bed (even if they weren't), and then tell the Guardian, because no one believes the Sun. Or maybe I'd hire Robbie Williams to have sex with me, then shave his eyebrows off while he was sleeping, then tell him he was bad in bed and then ask for my money back and then get Heston Blumenthal to make me breakfast.

(Shocking performance Hugh)

I would employ lots of infants to spring random love children on previous lovers, celebrities and generally people I don't like. 


You may be thinking that I am being totally selfish in my spending of my millions but no I haven't forgotten about everyone else. One friend once asked me if I'd still remember him if I won the lottery. I do still remember him and to prove this would buy him the most expensive and more importantly, most inconvenient present, such as a giant Japanese robot rabbit I once saw that was about £1000,0000 and could fill a house. He couldn't possibly return it. That would just be rude.

(Happy 'I won the lottery'!)

I suppose if I wasn't being a total psychotic bitch I might do some nice things as well. Like hire Robert Patterson to just go and sit next to my house mate in her lecture or get George Michael to sing for my mum (if he can.) If I'm feeling particularly generous I could pay off a few debts here and there.


So there you go, that's what I'd do with £45 million. What would you do? You don't have to tell me, just thought it was polite to ask.


If it all goes tits up then I could just buy this flat in Chelsea and pretend I'm Blair Waldorf without the eating disorder. 

(£32,500,000 for a flat, impulse purchase)

Maybe I should buy a ticket.