That What We Do At Night, With The Lights Off

Lucy and I met up Wednesday.  It was pissing it down outside,  I was running an hour late due to replying to emails, and I stopped to talk to a friend and go to the Post Office on the way.  We agreed to meet in Asda cafe, which turned out to be a good choice, as they had cheap coffee, and it was warm and dry.

Usual chit chat ensued, Uni, work, plans, our Scouse tutor’s wedding plans (and the PowerPoint presentations about them), people we both knew.  But then, our conversation took a sinister turn.  For me, anyway.

If I hadn’t been so hyped up on coffee, fake Red Bull and tiredness, i’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have done this in such a public place.  Especially as there was a family sitting behind us, and I was painfully aware that the daughter was under ten, and facing me, so she could probably hear every word I said.  And some of you know I am a massive prude in real life when it comes to my own activities.

We talked about The Sex.

That’s not what I actually call it.  I don’t actually call it anything in real life, as I generally don’t talk about it.  But we were there, and we were talking about it.  Stories  from our teenage years, and from Lucy, more recent years.  A boy, whom we shall call ‘C’.

C used to live in the same Halls as Lucy, when she lived in Compton.  He’d call her up for booty calls after his work as a DJ, to which she entertained him.  At the time, this was a great source of amusement for me, as she would come into class late, tired and refusing to divulge to our friend T.  When Lucy moved out to different Halls closer to the SAD (School of Art and Design), he still called her, expecting her to travel the three or so miles out of town to his, have some fun, and then be kicked out onto the street.  She no longer entertains this boy.  I do believe he is the same boy who brought his current ‘call’ to her flat and asked for a pizza.  Or something.

All this was fine, and i’d heard it before, until she said that he had said this –

“You’ll like it this time, Luce, i’ve got lube”

Cue the inane cackling of laughter.  What a chat up line.  Gold star, matey!

Which led onto my story.  My story also involves a person called ‘C’.  I can’t really divulge too much information as to who C is, as i’m massively embarrassed to have entertained such an idiot in my house.  However, I still think those close to me have their suspicions, and may even be able to put one and one together and figure it out.

When I was about . . . 14?  I know it was June, it was Shifnal carnival.  I was single.  Most definitely.  We had been drinking, My friend, her boyfriend P; and I don’t remember where C came into it, but he did.  To my house we went, and I left my friend downstairs with her boyfriend, as she never really got time alone with any of them unless she was at mine or theirs.  Me and C went upstairs to the spare room.

I didn’t plan to do anything with them, but I didn’t want to be in the same room as two people ‘getting it on’.  So we went somewhere else that wasn’t MY room.  C really was an ugly boy.  I didn’t plan to do anything with him, but we ended up getting round to it.  Then he asked THAT question –

“Do you want me to put it in you?”

What kind of stupid question is that?  NO I BLOODY WELL DON’T!  Up to this point, I think I hadn’t had anyone actually DO anything to me like that.  Not through lack of trying, but I was the ugly one in my group, and I was shy.  In fact, most of the time, it was my friends who set me up with people.  In that ‘my friend says she likes you’ kinda way.  I do remember on one of my birthdays, we were out on a under 18’s club night, and my friends were going around telling people it was my birthday and sending them my way :S Weirdest night ever, getting off with a gay male friend and a strange girl.  She was called Kimberley.  Never met her before, never met her again.

I said NO to C.  So he goes –

“OK, tell me when you’re done then.”

Um, WOW.

After a bit, I got bored and pained, said ‘yes’ to being ‘done’, and went downstairs to see if it was safe to go into my living room.

I do remember, the next day a group of us saw him in the street.  I ended up kicking him when he was on the floor, literally.  I don’t remember why, or what he said.  But he’d made me really angry.  And nobody could make any sense of my actions.

So that’s the story of my MOST EMBARRASSING EVER story.  All told in the middle of Asda cafe.  We’re so classy, yes?



The Things We Do For Our Nans . . .

I cleaned out my wardrobe this evening, got rid of some tops that I no longer wish to ever wear, and during this clear out I actually found a dress that . . . can’t believe i’m saying this . . . goes over my knees!  :O

Gobsmacked!  How can this be?  All my dresses are on the knee or maybe just slightly above, how can I possibly wear and have this dress!?  Then I realised, it’s my ‘going to my nan’s in Prestatyn’ dress.  I wear it to please my nan, who likes my dresses, but prefers if I wear  flats (OMG) with them!

Nan, I love u dearly, but im never gonna wear flats.  The day I wear flats is the day you see Piers Morgan, Ian Hislop and Jeremy Clarkson all having a bromance picnic together . . .

I’m unsure whether to keep this dress, or put it in the ‘no longer wanted’ clothes pile.  It’s a good make, a John Rocha summer print dress from Debenhams, Stockport.  If I get rid, i’ll have to make my nan get used to one of my shorter dresses that everyone else knows me for, but that means nan will make me traipse around Rhyl’s cheap version of Peacocks and Shoe Zone AGAIN (shudders).

Not going thru that again.  That”s it, the dress is staying.  But in very back of the wardrobe.

Or I could hem it . . . maybe  . . .

But it has soooo made me want to wear my cherry dress and red tights tomorrow, and my pink tailored coat I got from Oasis in the sale.  I saw it in mint green the other day, wish I had money to have that one.  I have nothing in a mint pale green shade, maybe i’ll hint at my nan, or i’ll make a deal with her.
I’ll wear this dress, if you get me this Oasis pale mint green coat.
if it’s a tailored coat, then i don’t mind if its over my knee.  I love that, but a dress over my knee is only for my nan.
Lucy x

Jean Paul Gaultier, I Love You

Depending on how old you are, or possibly your morals, you will know Jean Paul Gaultier from one of two places – glossy fashion magazine previews and reviews of catwalks and fashion weeks, or Eurotrash, with Antoine De Caunes.  I know him from the latter.  I was a kid in the Nineties.  I would have been around seven when I first saw Eurotrash.  That may seem a bit wrong, but honestly, I don’t think I had a clue what they were on about half the time.

From this, I loved him, I thought he was amazingly funny looking.  I didn’t know he was a designer, that came much later.  I love his designs.  I love that he did ALL the costumes for The Fifth Element, and personally checked over all the actors and extras on the set.  And now I love THESE –



Anyone who knows me, will know I absolutely love collecting sweet wrappers and drinks bottles.  These are no exception.  I shall be buying two of each – one set to open, drink, and reseal, and another set to keep bottled up, like a fine wine.

I don’t particularly care for the Madonna – boob – esque female shape, but I love the Gallic one on the left.  My other half says it looks very sailory.  I say it’s French.  And i’m right, because I know 😛

Though I do expect to pay around a pound a bottle for them.  I don’t mind, it’s not like I can afford any of his clothes . . . yet . . .

I Have A Serious Point to Make

You spend £12 million, that’s POUNDS, not DOLLARS, on a wedding, and the best picture, the one you choose as your Twitter avatar, is the one the photographer took through a WINDOW?

Now i’ve got that bit of moaning out of the way, I shall explain.  I’m talking about Petra Ecclestone, one of the darling daughter heiresses of Bernie, the stumpy overlord of the Formula One empire.  And it leads me nicely from one piece of current news – Bernie’s continual whingeing about how much his ex – wife spent on their daughter’s wedding, with him footing the bill, to another piece of current affairs – Bahrain. Please do not click away from this page now, I have a serious point to make.

I am writing this in the early hours of Friday, the morning of First Practice for the Chinese Grand Prix.  See, Bahrain is on the horizon, in a kind of will – it – won’t – it limbo.  There are rumours of teams booking two sets of tickets for staff members, one direct to the Gulf state, and one going home with a stop off in Qatar to refuel.  The drivers are being more reserved than usual, waiting for their teams to speak.  The teams have told the press to talk to Bernie.  Bernie has told the press to talk to FOTA.  FOTA has said to ask the FIA.  Mark Webber has spoken out, saying he wants to race.  There have been calls for the race to not be broadcast on TV if it does indeed go ahead.

Last year, it was postponed, then cancelled.  This year, they’re pushing it a bit.  We’re now just over a week away, and there’s no mention of a cancellation.  With the ongoing street protests, and the vox populi calling for the end of reign for the Al Khalifa family, can we really risk a race?

When Button was in Brazil in 2010, a race notorious for having to go through the favelas to get to the track, his convoy was ambushed by armed gunmen.  This was not the first time this has happened, as in the past, a few teams employees have been mugged on their way from the track.  This may have been a targeted attack in a country known for this level of violence in it’s capital city, but who is to say that the Bahraini protesters, who want the race cancelled as they see it as a symbol of the ruling family’s extravagance, won’t do it?  Maybe not with guns, but haphazard petrol – bombing?

Sports, religion and politics should never meet.  Sadly, they do.  This was seen when China hosted the Olympics, and the Free Tibet / Burma movement ran into a spot of bother.  I know from personal experience with Muslim friends that Sunni and Shia don’t mix, and that is the problem.  Those in charge are of a religious minority in this small kingdom.

Bahrain has a contract for Formula One races until 2016. But I do not think it is worth it.  If a racegets cancelled two years in a row, it has to be taken off the calendar.  So cancel it.  We do not want this kind of bad press for what is actually a very good sport.  It all could get out of hand, and quite frankly, I prefer my rockstars dead and my sporting idols alive.

Let’s leave it that way.


Future Vintage

I have a book called Vintage Handbags, full of the most beautiful designer bags of fashion eras gone by.  The book showcases bags that have been handcrafted with the finest leather, embellished with the whitest pearls, and finished with the best metal clasps, fit for the Coco Chanel clutch wannabe.  This got me thinking, looking at my own bags.  Which one will be considered ‘vintage’ to future generations?

I am proud to say I have one bag for each day of the week.  I have 12 in fact (just counted now to check), and are a variety of River Island, House of Fraser, New Look, Topshop and free bag offers with certain fragrances.

When I walk through House of Fraser and see all the Radley bags, I examine them, feel them, mess about with the zip, these are bags that will be vintage in future, maybe to be seen on future episodes of Antiques Roadshow.  These bags represent my book, quality quality quality.  My bags are price, price, and price, they are not vintage, they are high street retail conveyor belt quality.

Vintage is either a hand me down item, bounded in a protective sheet away from dust or daddy long legs, or a very heavy price tag from Selfridges / House of Fraser.  My bags are neither, but if I were to take a chance, i’d like to think my Yumi bag would be considered vintage looking, even if its just for the print inside it.  Looking at it, I wish i’d got the matching one that went with it now too!

If this book is called ‘Vintage Handbags’, then I guess the future one would be called ‘Handbags Of The Conveyor Belt’, with a certain shop being with ‘P’ being dominant!

When I go the Fashion Heaven above, i’ll leave a note saying;

These bags are not vintage and not designer, they are high street, wear them and use them, knowing you have the original high street conveyor belt handbag.

And that’s why its vintage, because Primark went bust 😛

Lucy x

A Bad Lesson On Fashion

I recently did a trade with my Twitter friend @sirenmoonbee.  She makes the most twee little earrings, with bows on them!  As part of this trade, I also requested two steampunk clock part rings, on for me, and one for W, my other half.  He said he liked Steampunk, but it wasn’t a trend he would ‘get in on’.  I went ahead and got him one anyway.  He went ‘umm’ and ‘ahh’ when I offered it to him, then put it on.  And wore it out.  All the way round Asda and back home again.  When he got home, we both decided they were ‘dress rings’, or as I call these particular items of clothing or accessories ‘posing wear’.  For going to gigs and stuff, those days when you need to make an impression, or ‘one up’ someone.  I always try that at gigs.  Best dressed band groupie is my award.  Got to be, I am the vocalist’s girlfriend, after all.

He’s going to use his ring in their next photoshoot.  I, however, am going to use it as part of this lesson.  A lesson on Steampunk.  It’s not going to be much  of a lesson, as I don’t know all that much about it, so it’ll be a lesson for both of us, I suppose.

I have a few friends who are into Steampunk.  They like wearing goggles and stuff.  Victorian clothing.  Most of them are geeks.  Not the book loving type, but the I – live – my – life – through – Warcraft type of geek.  Steampunk reapplies the use of brass, leather and iron and puts them in places they probably shouldn’t belong.  Metal keys on keyboards.  Cogs and things instead of hinges.  Or just for decoration.  Think of steam carriages, and the workings inside the engine.  That’s how it all looks.  It’s all about history.  It’s really an extension on the retro fashion that is so in at the moment, except instead of going back to the Sixties, or the Thirties, go back to the Victorian times.  Add some Around The world in Eighty Days, a bit of Jules Verne, and a monocle, lots and lots of polished brass.

That was a rubbish lesson.  Here’s a picture of the ring I got.  Please excuse my nail varnish.


Bank Holiday Madness!

Monday was a Bank Holiday.  You all know what a Bank Holiday is, right?  For those of you that don’t, this is Wikipedia’s definition –

A bank holiday is a public holiday in the United Kingdom or a colloquialism for public holiday in Ireland.  There is no automatic right to time off on these days, although the majority of the population is granted time off work or extra pay for working on these days, depending on their contract.  The first official bank holidays were the four days named in the Bank Holidays Act 1871, but today the term is colloquially (albeit incorrectly) used for public holidays which are not officially bank holidays, for example Good Friday and Christmas Day.

I don’t use this term colloquially, as it actually WAS a Bank Holiday.  I think.  Anyway, as per the norm in my household, we went shopping, as we do every single day, aside from Sundays.  Usually, the roads are kinda busy, the supermarkets are packed with people panic – buying various items, and children are running amok in the aisles.  When we approached the car park, however, we noticed it was distinctly empty.  YAY!  It turned out, so was Asda.  That was brilliant, I thought, as I have quite a dislike for the process of shopping itself, the ‘excuse me’, the pushing past ignorant people who pretend not to hear you, being run over by trollies, the noise, queueing . . . ugh, queueing.  Great British pastime, queueing and moaning at the same time.  It also meant I could get pick of the leftover eggs.  Easter eggs. Mmmm.

Nope.  There were none.  NONE!  Well, there were a few, but they were broken ones, and I don’t like eating food that has broken in the packet already.  😦  Much disappointment for me.  So I bought myself a block of cheese and made cheese, onion and meatball toasties instead.

Happy Bank Holiday – Day.  Now go back to work.