Shop without the drop?

For many shopaholics – myself included – summer and winter mean, on the high street at least, one thing: sales. It’s the time of year when women display an astonishing readiness to join queues at the crack of dawn; take on sweltering hot, overcrowded stores; and treat with uncharacteristic contempt those who threaten to beat them to it in seeking out their coveted item.

Yet if it’s such an unpleasant experience, why do so many of us put ourselves through it year after year? The answer is simple – if you’re lucky enough to find that heavily reduced, highly sought-after item, then all the upheaval becomes worthwhile. Sales serve as the ultimate justification to buy ordinarily expensive things, and many women would willingly put themselves through any amount of turmoil if the end result was, say, a pair of discounted Louboutins.

Chaos at the opening of the Selfridges sale.

But for some reason, this year I really couldn’t be bothered with it all. For starters, for every sales bargain I’ve had in the past, it’s almost always been counterbalanced by a major sales disappointment. Having waited weeks for a dress to go on sale, I’ll rush to a shop when their sale begins, only to discover that it hasn’t been reduced at all. Other times, such a dress might have made it into the sale, but the reduction is so minimal that my “it was in the sale, so it’s okay” excuse just won’t cut it. The final straw came last week – having finally convinced myself that a skirt with a fractional reduction could not be overlooked any longer, I caved in and bought it…only to return to the shop earlier this week to find it reduced considerably more. Life is so unfair.

And so, with this episode in mind, I was determined not to be out-witted on my next shopping trip. Certain that a particular top would be reduced again, I exercised a model amount of self-restraint and allowed it to pass me by – on this occasion at least. Returning a few days later, my intuition had indeed proved top-notch – it certainly had been blessed with a further reduction. And so, smugly grinning at my expert instinct, I rooted through the rail to find my size, only to find that someone else had beaten me to it. Sometimes, good times do not come to those who wait. And on those occasions, I want to tear all the clothes off their hangers and scream in annoyance.

Following this spate of misfortune, I resolved to start afresh, certain that a hallowed sales bargain was out there somewhere – all I needed to do was find it. I embarked on a brand new shop and was faced with rail upon rail of discounted clothes. The sea of low-price clothes seemed to be emitting positive vibes – at long last, I was certain that this was the place I would find my bargain, and alleviate my traumatic past experiences.

Yet nothing whatsoever took my fancy. There I was, nestled in a treasure trove of bargains, feeling completely uninspired. For some reason, the sight of an otherwise nice jacket squeezed on to a cramped rail and covered in bright red discount tags had put me off entirely. I left remarkably empty-handed – a sales first for me.

Shops are still marking items down in a last-ditch attempt to shift their final stock, but I’m remaining unmoved. Far more exciting is the imminent arrival of new-season collections, although I’m sure my subconscious bargain reflex will spring back into action soon and remind me that I ought not to buy that lovely sheepskin coat, since it will no doubt be reduced in the winter sale…

Cos we are living in a material world and I am a material girl

It’s not often that I hear a song that is so excruciatingly unbearable that I have to switch off the radio. Admittedly, I could probably still write a polemic on the dire current state of popular music, but I shall refrain from doing so on this occasion. Instead, I desperately need to have a rant about the ridiculous content of a song I heard the other day.

It started off with all the trappings of every other song you hear nowadays – a gratingly nasal voice combined with barely discernable pronunciation and contrived rhymes, plus a bit of rap thrown in for good measure.

But it got worse. Once I had got past the mandatory whines and groans accompanying the start of every line and had actually made out the lyrics, I could not help but exasperate at how dreadfully money-obsessed my generation is. Take the chorus for example:

I wanna be a billionaire so fricking bad
Buy all of the things I never had
Uh, I wanna be on the cover of Forbes magazine
Smiling next to Oprah and the Queen

It’s not even like the artist (whose name, Travie McCoy, doesn’t exactly invoke connotations of grandeur) aspires to wealth for estimable reasons. Later in the song, he boasts about all the girls he could “pull” and the “Mercedes” he would drive if he had pots of money. Where have charity and community gone? The youth of today – myself included – seems to be getting swallowed up by this egocentric materialism endorsed by pop culture.

I’m not just blaming money-savvy Travie for this attitude towards wealth either. There’s recent pop sensation Ke$ha, whose money fixation appears to be so pronounced that a dollar sign has managed to find its way into her name. Add to that Kanye West, who rapped about the ‘Gold Digger’ women in his life some years ago, or Destiny’s Child, whose celebration of the ‘Independent Woman’ focused almost exclusively on financial freedom, championing the individual who can “pay (her) own bills” and “buy (her) own diamonds”. Even ABBA had something to say about the “rich man’s world” they lived in.

So perhaps times haven’t really changed at all, and Travie’s effusions were merely a crude awakening for me. Nonetheless, I still have faith that money isn’t everything. There are still plenty of songs that celebrate love and friendship besides those that concentrate on money. The hoards of tents that descend on mud-ridden Glastonbury every year prove that many people are prepared to sacrifice luxury in favour of good music. And Sir Paul McCartney’s “money can’t buy me love” attitude seems to have rung true, if his divorce settlement is anything to go by.

But do you know what’s worst of all? The song is horribly, deploringly catchy. That doesn’t mean I’ll be buying it though – no no, I certainly couldn’t afford the download fee…

Misplaced patriotism?

Yesterday England breathed a collective sigh of relief as our World Cup team scored a long-overdue victory that secured our place in the next stage of the competition.

The relentless hype surrounding the England campaign may have calmed down momentarily, but as Sunday’s showdown against Germany – already being hailed as a rerun of the infamous 1966 final – approaches, rumours of dressing-room drama are already coming to the fore.

Admittedly, I’m not the greatest football fan, but I think we need to get our priorities sorted here. For starters, the World Cup so far has been painfully bland. Performances have been lacklustre and uninspiring (Spain’s defeat to Switzerland, England’s failure to dominate an easy group), to such an extent that strong teams haven’t even made it past the group stages (shame on you, Italy and France).

And yet, the press has still managed to extract stories out of this gloom. John Terry’s comments – and Fabio Capello’s subsequent backlash – were immediately pounced upon and whipped up into a media frenzy of ridiculous proportions. You wouldn’t even have known that the emergency budget was announced the day before, such was the media dominance of the England squad. Even my school, currently immersed in exams and supposedly promoting ‘sensible attitudes’ towards revision, actually went to the lengths of rescheduling our General Studies paper so that it would finish in time for us to watch the England-Slovenia match. I think it’s time we took a break.

In fact, hidden behind the oppressive shadow of the World Cup is another competition that has recently begun – Wimbledon. And unlike the tedious matches we’ve endured in the World Cup so far, Wimbledon has been home to some absolute corkers. Federer got through to the next round by the skin of his teeth, Nadal came up against surprisingly stiff competition, and whilst Rooney’s ankle and Green’s fingers have been intensely scrutinised, Murray’s seemingly optimistic Wimbledon chances seem to have been woefully overlooked. The real thriller, however, was the 11-hour battle between Isner and Mahut fought in the outlying depths of Court 18. It was a match of epic proportions, smashing numerous world records and stretching out over three exhausting days. And yet it was still overshadowed by the news of Italy’s defeat to Slovakia or Beckenbauer’s comments on England’s chances.

Green: the face says it all really.

It strikes me that if we continue to obsess so rapaciously over our World Cup campaign, it’ll be over before we know it. There’s sometimes a fine line between patriotism and aggression, one that has already been crossed by many over-zealous fans. Let’s keep it calm, shall we? What both ourselves and our players need now is to take a break from all the unhealthy attention being paid to the minutiae of our campaign and come back to face Germany feeling refreshed and revived. We need to stop the incessant fixation on what our players are up to and allow them to focus with the game in hand. With a bit more detachment and a more mature attitude, a win could well come as a pleasant surprise.

Let them eat cake

Whilst working at a wedding this weekend, my long-held suspicions were confirmed: the cupcake proliferation truly is global. The Malaysian bride opted for a mountain of cupcakes instead of a traditional wedding cake, to the rapture of guests.

But why, all of a sudden, have we developed such a fascination with these iced concoctions? Why is it that on practically every street corner I pass yet another bakery about to open shop? What is it that has caused this sudden sugar rush?

I blame the recession. Cupcakes offer a bite of self-indulgent luxury without the sickening price tag. And leftover crumbs are a lot easier to explain to whoever’s paying than a pair of Jimmy Choos.

And at a time of widespread unemployment and public malaise, the magical, alchemic process of turning glorified gloop into a fluffy cake is utterly rewarding. Watching someone take a bite out of the fruits of your efforts means so much more than an impersonal store-bought box of chocolates.

Suffice to say that I’ve got the bug. Any excuse to get in the kitchen (revision procrastination being the current favourite) and I’m in there like a shot, cranking up the mixer or liberally pouring vanilla extract to my heart's content. And even though I delight in testing the finished product (plus the mandatory mouthfuls of mixture, of course), the icing on the cake has to be seeing other people relish the results. So dig in.

Me with the multitude of cakes, cookies and other baked bits and bobs that I made for my Mum's partner's 60th birthday last month.

Preened, primped and Plummered

Last night I caught up with the latest episode of Junior Apprentice, and my oh my were my flames of admiration for Zoe Plummer rekindled.

I wish I was brave enough to wear red lipstick.

Admittedly, I don’t much admire her business style, but I definitely have some serious wardrobe envy towards her. It certainly takes some nerve to negotiate deals wearing high-waisted shorts or mustard yellow tights, and her nautical jacket worn with white tights is ridiculously cute. She even managed to make a cupcake outfit look cool by topping it off with a red beret, as if it were the cherry on top.

That is one brave haircut missy.

What a shame that she threw a wobbly before meeting the tailor who bespoked (crikey Alan Sugar, quite a hip neologism there!) their outfits. I would have thought that would have been right up her street. Still, my disappointment was assuaged by Arjun’s smile. I actually could eat him up, he is that cute.

Nom nom nom.

I want to give you a burning lustful kiss on your naughty bare bum

When most people hear the name James Joyce, they associate it with the genius behind ‘Ulysses’ or the creator of ‘Dubliners’ and ‘Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man’.

However, my understanding of the author was somewhat transformed upon the discovery of these gems: http://loveletters.tribe.net/thread/fce72385-b146-4bf2-9d2e-0dfa6ac7142d

Absolutely hilarious. Who would have thought that on those lonely nights when one would have expected him to have been planning Leopold Bloom’s latest escapade, he was actually living out a fetish for soiled undergarments and flatulent women?

To NORA
Dublin 8 December 1909
My sweet little whorish Nora I did as you told me, you dirty little girl, and pulled myself off twice when I read your letter. I am delighted to see that you do like being fucked arseways. Yes, now I can remember that night when I fucked you for so long backwards. It was the dirtiest fucking I ever gave you, darling. My prick was stuck in you for hours, fucking in and out under your upturned rump. I felt your fat sweaty buttocks under my belly and saw your flushed face and mad eyes. At every fuck I gave you your shameless tongue came bursting out through your lips and if a gave you a bigger stronger fuck than usual, fat dirty farts came spluttering out of your backside. You had an arse full of farts that night, darling, and I fucked them out of you, big fat fellows, long windy ones, quick little merry cracks and a lot of tiny little naughty farties ending in a long gush from your hole. It is wonderful to fuck a farting woman when every fuck drives one out of her. I think I would know Nora's fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women. It is a rather girlish noise not like the wet windy fart which I imagine fat wives have. It is sudden and dry and dirty like what a bold girl would let off in fun in a school dormitory at night. I hope Nora will let off no end of her farts in my face so that I may know their smell also.

You say when I go back you will suck me off and you want me to lick your cunt, you little depraved blackguard. I hope you will surprise me some time when I am asleep dressed, steal over to me with a whore's glow in your slumberous eyes, gently undo button after button in the fly of my trousers and gently take out your lover's fat mickey, lap it up in your moist mouth and suck away at it till it gets fatter and stiffer and comes off in your mouth. Sometimes too I shall surprise you asleep, lift up your skirts and open your drawers gently, then lie down gently by you and begin to lick lazily round your bush. You will begin to stir uneasily then I will lick the lips of my darling's cunt. You will begin to groan and grunt and sigh and fart with lust in your sleep. Then I will lick up faster and faster like a ravenous dog until your cunt is a mass of slime and your body wriggling wildly.

Goodnight, my little farting Nora, my dirty little fuckbird! There is one lovely word, darling, you have underlined to make me pull myself off better. Write me more about that and yourself, sweetly, dirtier, dirtier.

JIM

Brilliant. I strongly believe these ought to be published and sold alongside copies of his other ‘masterpieces’.

In defence of Sex and the City…

On Friday my mum and I were accompanied by my stepdad (who was, admittedly, almost the only man there) to a charity premiere of Sex and the City 2. Despite being a Sex and the City devotee, I must admit that I had my suspicions after reading slating press reviews. Nevertheless, we joined legions of other eager women, all of whom had dressed up in fabulous outfits for the occasion, for cosmopolitans in the bar accompanied with canapés served by topless waiters (!!!) before sitting down for the film itself.

Sarah Jessica Parker at the Sex and the City 2 premiere in New York. I love the flowing, lemony, chiffony gown.

Admittedly, the film doesn’t engender critical success. It lacks plot, the screenplay is unimaginative and the acting isn’t exactly flawless. But is that really what those hundreds of stiletto-clad women had come for? Of course not. Everything women love about Sex and the City – the outfits, the affairs, the trauma – was lathered on as liberally as Samantha applied her yams. We lusted after Samantha’s Birkin, fell in love with Mr. Big all over again, and longed for an beach holiday in Abu Dhabi (even if it was filmed in Morocco…). We took Samantha’s enduring promiscuity and Stanford’s eternal effeminacy with a pinch of salt. Everyone knows that Sex and the City doesn’t represent reality – not all women can afford the quartet’s clothes and sleep with every other guy they come across – but films are about escapism, and we get a kick out of watching other people living out our hidden fantasies or embarrassing themselves in situations inaccessible to us in everyday life.

Marry me Mr. Big.

Nevertheless, the film does tackle some of the issues that face women as they look for their own Mr. Big or approach the dreaded menopause in their own lives. Carrie’s marriage is at times far from idyllic. Miranda struggles to juggle work with domestic life. Charlotte is exasperated by her children. Even if these issues are given a Sex and the City spin (Charlotte’s crisis is abated by the arrival of a braless, busty nanny; Big puts the ‘sparkle’ back into the relationship through a black diamond ring), it is comforting to know that these concerns are shared by hundreds of other women. As we laughed and cried together in the cinema – women of all ages, races and backgrounds – we were united by our love for those Sex and the City girls. And regardless of critical acclaim, we had fun – so in our eyes at least, the film was most definitely a resounding success.

I don't care if it was a gay wedding. There were SWANS.

EDIT: Since writing this post, I have come across Jackie Ashley's excellent response to the criticisms of the film. Atta girl. http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2010/may/31/sex-city-male-female-fantasy