Posts Tagged ‘Funny’

The Wharf: The Sex Toy for Bankers

| Journalism

leloSomeone has designed a sex toy for bankers. Because of course they have. This gave cause for me to email my Wharf editor the legendary question: ‘Can I write about a cock ring?’ The answer was: ‘Yes, as long as you don’t call it a cock ring.’ You can read the full article on the link below:

http://www.wharf.co.uk/2014/12/blondes-eye-view-the-bankers-s.html

And here’s the frankly amazing advert for the product. Just about safe for work, but not safe for your soul:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r8qTN6__RAg

 

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Confessions of a Festivalnista: Camp Bestival Backstage Bites

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Bestival 1

Yeah, yeah, I know festivalnista isn’t a proper word, but neither is fashionista and I published a book with that in the title. It’s that same book that saw me invited to appear at Camp Bestival, which took place in glorious Dorset this weekend.

I’ve been to festivals before, but never one this big, and never as an artist. It’s rather lovely having an ‘Artist’ wristband. My mates (who from now on will be referred to as ‘my entourage’) pitched their tent next to Katy Hill and calmly watched Mark Owen stroll past without squealing. I’m proud of you, girls. There’s a swanky backstage bar area called The Lucky Cat. It was decorated with opium den style slouch couches, Chinese lanterns and me, reclining in various positions, sipping gin coolers. And there really are nicer toilets in the VIP area. You know you’ve arrived when you have guaranteed access to loo roll on a festival site. I was so spoiled it almost made up for feeling like a loser for most of the ten years I spent working in the fashion industry. Almost.

Lucky Cat

The Camp Bestival site is a glorious sprawl of fun and colour, spreading around and away from Lulworth Castle like a fete on hippy crack. There were some big name acts that were lapped up, got down too, and generally screamed at by my entourage (told ya), including Grandmaster Flash, The Levellers, and the quite unbeatable Horrible Histories (I’m guessing the average age of our group was a shade older than their usual audience). But for me the true joy of festivals is found away from the main stage, in the unexpected gems you stumble across. The disco tent, the inflatable church with dancing barefoot vicars, the small child in a monkey onesie chasing and leaping after a bubble. It’s what you see on the way to the big stage that you really remember. Festivals are like life in that way.

I was very lucky to do my own turn in the Guardian Literary Tent. I regaled all with my powerful insight into festival fashion tips: get a gel manicure, get a blow dry, get your eyelashes tinted…only joking. As I said on stage, I always feel so happy when I’m at a festival, is it the alcohol? The communing with nature? The fact my entourage are all with me? No, it’s because I spend four days without mirrors. At best you might come across a small shiny plastic square stuck to the back of a portaloo door, which is so fuzzy and unclear it’s like looking at an Instagram of yourself. So my true festival fashion tips are: wear what makes you happy, and what you can pee easily in. Unless you’ve got access to those artist loos, in which case go for as many complexly fastened outfits you have to fully remove to wee in, as you like.

Thank you, Camp Bestival. It was a pleasure.

Bestival

 

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A shameless act of self-promotion: why Confessions of a Fashionista is the perfect Mothers’ Day present.

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COF packshot

In the brazen pursuit of trying to launch my book-writing career, here is my argument for why Confessions of a Fashionista makes the perfect Mothers’ Day gift. Confessions of a Fashionista is a mum-loving book. It features a real life mum (mine), who is always ignored and always proved right. It is even dedicated to my mum, ‘who didn’t want me to write about [her] but let me do it anyway.’ How mumtastic is that? It is also, allegedly, funny. Here are three mum bits in my book for you to enjoy.

 

Mum picks clothes off the floor and drops them neatly folded onto my legs. They say genius skips a generation, but in this family it’s tidiness. Mum cleans instinctively, obsessively, like a Stepford Wife on speed. She has declared jihad on dust. Our house is free from books, ornaments, excessive soft furnishings and, often, people. She’s a pioneer of OCD. The say minimalism began in 1960s America, but I have a strong suspicion it was born in 1950s north Hertfordshire.

 

 

‘That’s a nice top, where’s it from?’ Mum appears with more newspapers.

‘Specialist shop. Only a hundred and fifty pounds in the sale.’

Mum grips the sideboard to steady herself. ‘You spent a hundred and fifty pounds on a cardigan?’

I forgot I’m not talking to fashionistas. ‘It’s cashmere.’

‘It’s immoral!’

 

 

[On discovering my mum trying to throw away the one of a kind Elizabethan costume I bought from the English National Opera].

Mum is shoving the ENO dress into her rubbish bag.

‘Mum! That’s Tosca’s costume.’

‘Well, she can either have it back or we chuck it. It’s covered in white powder.’ She rubs her fingers together and wrinkles her nose.

‘It’s plaster of Paris. It glows under UV light.’ I make a snatch for the bottom of the dress but she’s too quick.

‘Why on earth would you want a dress that glowed in the dark?’

‘I use it for fancy dress.’

‘What’s this?’ She holds up a hot-pink leather skirt. ‘Fancy dress too?’

‘No, that’s Harrods’ own brand.’

 

 

Don’t forget to write your own mum loving dedication in the front of the book – your mum will be thrilled. Tell her I said hi. Happy Mother’s Day.

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Top Leer – including Ode To Driving A Porsche

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Here is a link to the piece I wrote about male reactions to seeing a woman driving a Porsche for The Vagendahttp://vagendamag.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/top-leer.html

And here is the poem I penned which inspired the piece:

Ode To Driving A Porsche, or What Rhymes With Penis?

I drive a Porsche, a Boxster, a soft top.                                                                                    I know, I’m a tit.  If I was a character in Midsomer Murders                                                      I’d be the flash bleeder that gets it.                                                                                    When I pull up at the lights some men do a double take;                                                        they grip their steering wheel, they grip their handbrake.                                                   ‘That can’t be a woman behind the wheel,’ they sneer, they hiss.                                      They don’t see a sports car; they see me driving a giant penis.

Is this a little bit of sexism, a bit of misogyny?                                                                       Don’t tell me a speedy car isn’t for the likes of little ol’ me.                                                  Don’t rev your engine, or cut me up,                                                                                       I’m not looking in my mirror to check my make-up.                                                               No, I don’t want a bigger boot to store my shopping in,                                                         And yes, I understand about the fuel-injection engine.                                                            Your banter is totes hilarious, you’re so very sharp;                                                               Yes, I am a girl, and yes I can parallel park.

I know you’d rather I drive a nice hatchback,                                                                         a nice 1.2 litre, with room for the nice kids in the back.                                                       Birds have a car; lads own a competitive machine.                                                                 My vehicle’s emasculated you, and now you’re being obscene.                                             Are you suggesting women can’t drive fast because we have vaginas?                              Women accelerate in rallies, F1 cars, fighter planes and airliners.                                       You drive a Fiat Panda, all covered in rust;                                                                         watch my giant penis go, and eat my liberated dust.

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Bank Holiday Books

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Make the most of the last Bank Holiday weekend of summer, and the year, and grab yourself a good book.

For intellectual posing by the pool or in the park: 

The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller.

Forget Fifty Shades of Grey, the Orange Prize winner Madeline Miller will raise your temperature with this story about the love between Achilles and Patroclus (yes, they’re both men).  A tenderly written, beautifully described re-telling of a tale that appeared in Homer’s The Illiad.  The story runs in a golden blur across the sand like it’s eponymous hero; and despite knowing what ultimately happens, the book never loses its pace or tension.  I became so entwined and invested in Patroclus’ and Achilles’ destiny I couldn’t put this down.  I kept reading till the early hours of the morning before snivelling into a pack of tissues.  Stunning.

For making you appreciate holidaying with your family isn’t so bad: 

Why Be Happy When You Can Be Normal? by Jeanette Winterson

First, let me assure you Jeanette Winterson’s autobiographical Why Be Happy When You Can Be Normal? isn’t the depressing tear-fest you might fear.  Then let me tell you that it is, at times, harrowing.  You cannot read the life story of a girl who was abandoned at birth, adopted by a borderline poverty-stricken family, abused by her religious zealot adoptive Mother and rejected for being a lesbian, without expecting a few tears.  But there is more than misery in this memoir.  There is survival and hope.  Winterson is a strong woman, a strong writer and this is a book to make you value your life.

For the day after murder on the dance floor:

The Fall by Claire McGowan

This is a murder mystery with a difference.  It’s not just the victim who meets a sticky demise; the middle class dream is butchered too.  McGowan joyfully destroys every spoil and sparkle of Charlotte, her spoilt protagonist, when a week before her £40K wedding her banker boyfriend is accused of murder.  Charlotte must seek help from unlikely sources: Keisha, an angry woman with a potentially deadly secret, and Hegarty, the police officer who arrested her fiancé.  I didn’t know crime could be this funny.

For reading on your Kindle, if you’re over the age of 21:

Diary of a Chav: Trainers v Tiaras by Grace Dent

Technically this is a young adult novel, but don’t let that put you off.  Dent nails the language, life and dreams of her Chav protagonist Shiraz Bailey Wood, from Goodmayes Estate, Essex with her trademark humour.  But far from ending up the joke of the book, Shiraz is a hilarious, intelligent young woman you really root for.  This is a stealthily clever read, which made me re-examine my own prejudices as well as laugh so much my organic herbal tea came out my nostrils.  But be warned: there are six books in this series, and once I started I had to read them all.  Worth a cheeky download, innit.

Have a happy bank holiday weekend x

 

 

 

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