While the weather has been patchy in London in Celebville it’s been sun, sea, sand and hopefully sangria! Let’s see who’s snogging who shall we?

Jude Law and Sienna Miller getting frisky on holiday.
Ok so Jude was/is a skeezy cheater and that’s a terrible, terrible thing, but the look at them now they’re back together! SO EFFING HOT!

Kate Hudson and Matt Bellamy.
Even though Muse are worse than listening to someone take a shit in the cubicle next to me, the fact that Bellamy is in a relationship with serial shagger Hudson is fucking bizarre. What do they talk about? Where do they go? Why do I care?

Jason Trawick and Britney Spears.
Look how 100% ordinary they are! It’s perfect!

Above: Jessica Biel and Justin Timberlake
Below: Russell Brand and Katy Perry
As an avid cyclist seeing couples on bikes makes me so excited and gooey inside. Also I used to have an enormous crush on Timberlake and I’m sure I once kissed a poster of him goodnight. Ahem.

Oh celebs, I wish we could all be as loved up and beautiful as you!

At least once a day I drift into a blissful daydream about Serge Gainsbourg where we re-enact scenes from Histoire De Melody Nelson and generally jump around having fun and doing suitably Gallic 60′s things like smoking Gitanes and running along cobbled streets while breathlessly laughing.

Most people who I tell about my Serge love do a double take. “Serge? Gainsbourg? The ‘Je t’aime’ guy?” then they screw up their faces and tell me how perverted he was or about the Whitney Houston incident. Once or twice I’ve even been told how he evilly coerced France Gall into singing a song about blow jobs, which she innocently thought was about lollipops. On the latter count all I have to say is really, France? Really? Pull the other one. Fair enough, the guy made some pretty tasteless photo shoot choices with Jane Birkin (his then wife) and he did make that really creepy song ‘Lemon Incest’ with his daughter, but the overall impression one gets of Gainsbourg is a highly sexed man who loved women, and his family, who’s work ranged from the classic, to the sublime, the surreal, and beyond. Unlike most modern pop stars who hide behind a façade of respectability Gainsbourg was honest, painfully so and saw no reason to sugar coat his preferences. No matter what I hear about him, listening to the raw passion in his voice as he sings Ballade De Melody Nelson smoothes away any of his rough edges, and makes it so easy to retreat back into my black and white dream.

Of course I have crushes other than Serge and his knee shakingly beautiful voice: in fact one of my other long-term loves is Slash from Guns N’Roses, specifically during G’n'R’s 1987 Ritz gig. The thing is Slash now, and Slash at any time after 1987, has mutated into a bit of jerk. He writes self-indulgent biographies detailing what a prick he was, and how much he hates Axl Rose, as the two of them frequently argue in public about the most mindlessly petty things.

While I’m happy to point out that Gainsbourg was a very different person to the shambling greasy perv he is made out to be I have no desire to do the same with Slash. Its because I don’t care about Slash now; I have no interest in how he’s matured as a person, what he did after Use Your Illusion, how he feels about being in any of his subsequent bands, none of that crap. It’s also because Serge is dead so it’s easier to idolise him.

1987 Slash was a the perfect pin-up, the pinnacle of everything he’d ever be in public at least, so if I Doc Brown from came whizzing by in his DeLorean and asked me where I wanted to go it’d be to the Ritz, to stand right at the front, in a leopard print bodystocking, frantically swiping at Slash as he leant over the crowd. After he’d picked me out for some one on one post show backstage treatment, I’d hop in the DeLorian and be happy to wake up back in 2010. Obviously I’m hoping that this has no major repercussions on the world’s time line, although even if it did affect Slash in some profound way G’n'R had already written and recorded Appetite for Destruction so I think everything would work out fine. Who really needs November Rain anyway?

Time paradoxes aside, having Slash and Serge as my top two crushes creates awkward conversations when these sorts of subjects come up, those typical late night ‘guilty pleasures’ conversations. Other people’s secret crushes are people like the mild mannered Zachary Quinto, or wooden Stephen Moyer; people so nice and evenly mannered that my choices make me seem like an unstable masochist. However I’m unlikely to change my allegiances soon, and even if Slash came out with a bizarre Mel Gibson style rant I’d still fantasize about that half hour spent with sweaty top-hatted Slash in a backstage room in 1987.

You see it’s a fantasy, I don’t know anything about either of them; Serge could have been a puppy kicking maniac in his spare time, Slash could be personally doling out soup to street orphans every night, it’s all academic. Their politics, their views on women’s lib, bleh, I couldn’t give a toss. I just want to dream about fun, French accents, and deft fingers. And why not? Why make it realistic? Why can’t we in our fantasies seperate the real from the imaginary and give the people we find beautiful every attribute we’d like them to have in real life?

Do any of you have a genuinely guilty pleasure of a crush? If so tell! To those of you who can’t make the quantum leap, I say try, or at least make your dreamboats less mundane!

Further Reading:
Serge Gainsbourg: A Fistful of Gitanes by Sylvie Simmons
Slash: The Autobiography by Slash and Anthony Bozza

Further Listening:
Histoire De Melody Nelson by Serge Gainsbourg – Spotify
Appetite For Destruction by Guns N’Roses   – Spotify
A brief Serge Gainsbourg sampler I made on Spotify, otherwise look for the Initials S.G compliation.

Apparently I am a smart kid. My parents, teachers, and a succession of bosses who fired me, have all told me this repeatedly. This hasn’t stopped me from dropping out of uni on 3 successive occasions, enjoying The House Bunny way more than I should, and spraining my left foot five times in one year. Neither has this stopped me from infrequently going mental.

Now when I say mental, I don’t mean having a barney and smashing a few plates up (though that is fun and I recommend it to anyone who is a bit cross about something, cheap plates only though). I mean mental as in suffering from mental illness. Over my life I’ve taken Prozac, Paxil, Xanax, and Valium, and had so many others prescribed that I forget their names. I’ve been diagnosed with everything from a psychotic episode, through generalised anxiety, to “I guess you’re just in the doldrums hey?”. None of the labels or meds really made much of a permanent difference, and so yet again I have found myself being struck down by a case of the summer blues.

When I was younger and more often out of a relationship than in one I was convinced that once the right person came along I’d be able to shake myself out of these ‘doldrums’ and get it together. Surely I could sort myself back out with the love and support of someone great. Often being with someone was enough to drag me into a happier frame of mind for a while but soon enough I’d sink back into a mire of sadness once the honeymoon was over.

Being depressed, or otherwise unwell, makes for a shitty relationship especially if the whole thing was shakey in the first place. Who wants to unload their many and varied neuroses on someone else and drag them down with you? And if you do will they love you? Will they understand? Will they even care? But keeping everything to yourself makes you secretive, grumpy, and prone to crying fits. Well, it does that to me: results may vary.

Over the last few weeks I’ve been sliding slowly into a miserable frame of mind, and feeling more and more pathetic about it. The same things run through my head over and over: I have somewhere to live, two pretty goldfish, a wonderful boyfriend who I’m madly in love with, a huge project that I’m excited to work on, the sun is shining, my friends are brilliant… and yet none of it helps.

On Friday I was sent on some bizarre course by the job centre, and my advisor said that I seemed unmotivated. She started to tell me to let joy into my life, and that all I needed to do was see the happiness around me and choose to make it part of me. Walking out of her office into the glorious sunshine I felt like I had the heaviest boots ever, my soul felt leaden and I had to breathe slowly to stop myself from crying. All her The Secret-esque talk had done was make me feel even more stupid and pathetic for not letting myself be happy.

On Sunday evening after crying my eyes out over my faulty MacBook charger I took stock. Sure I’ve got so many things to be thankful for, and life could be so so much worse. The people around me: my friends, family, pets, and boyfriend, are wonderful, without them things would be so much worse, but, and there’s a huge but, it’s ok to feel like this. It’s not a choice I made, after all why on earth would I choose to be depressed? That totally defies logic! Rather than being a way of life I chose for myself this is something that happens, and with time and the right strategies it will be something that I can deal with more effectively, without resorting to lying in bed watching Randall and Hopkirk (Deceased) all day.

And so really what I wanted to say all the way through this rambling, narcissistic post is that I think I know I’m not alone in feeling this way. There are, maybe, some of you out there who are down in the dumps or worse and hope that being with someone else will sort you right out, or those of you who found someone and are cross at themselves for being unable to shake off a mood that’s been hanging around for so long. All I have to offer is something incredibly cheesy: you’re not alone; I’m there with you, listening to miserable songs, and feeling blue even though I have every reason to be happy. And maybe one day I’ll be a smart enough kid to pull myself up by my bootstraps and get it together forever.

Photos from Model Love and Matt Caplin

Lately life chez moi has been rather topsy-turvey, we’ve had double the amount of housemates due to that blasted volcano, people moving in, people moving out, a broken router, an broadband bill we forgot to pay which involved me wandering through Whitechapel in the rain to find a pay point, and a week of parties in the flat above, oh and me leaving my job to go full-time freelance.

Amidst all this chaos and disruption I sat down to watch Bright Star and no sooner had the opening credits begun rolling but I was transfixed and slightly teary. Bright Star is the story of John Keats, the poet, and Fanny Brawne, his neighbour, and their tempestuous romance during the last 3 years of Keat’s life. Abbie Cornish as Fanny is a wonder: a romantic lead who is smart, funny, headstrong, and gorgeous; while Ben Whishaw was perfect as a coy yet passionate Keats.

Being someone who neither goes for period dramas nor the poems of Keats I’m not sure what possessed me to watch this film, though it was probably it’s appearance on One Day, One Movie, but I am glad I did. While the soft focus saturated colours drew me in initially (I’m a sucker for anything made on real film stock) Abbie Cornish’s smart, funny, and insanely stylish character kept me hooked. Sometimes I’ll watch a film just for the costumes, compiling colour combinations and looks in my head for days afterwards, and I have sat through a lot of shockers just to see a dash of mauve against a snowy white arm, I hate to admit, however I’m happy to report that Bright Star was no Marie Antoinette thank fuck. This was a smart, engaging film that made me fall in love with falling in love all over again.

Fanny’s mostly homemade outfits are still rattling around in my head with their bright ruffled accents, and her penchant for enormous hats, and despite her look being rather avant-garde for those stuffy times it makes her an even more beguiling creature than either I or Keats thought possible.

Steal a little inspiration from her hotch-potch style and go wild on your next date! Throw caution to the wind! Layer ruffles on ruffles, patterns on patterns, and dress like that headstrong heroine you always wanted to be!

You are not a boring person so why should your date outfit be? Stop playing it safe and dress however makes you happy. After all if Fanny could get away with those kind of get ups, and have such an unfortunate name at the same time, then what’s to stop you and your less lewd name snagging a genius all to yourself?

Photos from Miles Adrift on tumblr who’s url I have rather lost and forgotten!, and screencaps by me.

The glorious sunshine has brought celebs out of their houses and into the sunshine for us to gawp and coo at. Yay!

Anne Hathaway and Adam Shulman in a town, somewhere, who knows, probably in California, kissing.

Rick Fox and Eliza Dushku (who can do no wrong in my eyes) after competing in a triathlon. They even held hands for part of it!

Freja Beha and Abbey Lee Kershaw shooting the new Chanel campaign. If these two are really really going out then my heart might explode with joy.

This is so adorbs, I want to hop on the back and go with Pink and her husband Carey Hart, wherever they’re going, I really don’t care.

If this sort of cuteness carries on from Spring to Summer I think I might have to go into hibernation early!

Pictures from ONTD and Jezebel.

I fucking love the idea of matchy matchy dressing with my boyfriend. In fact it’s something I try to trick him into doing regularly, but he’s yet to fall for it and was rather annoyed with me when we left his house last weekend in almost matching scarves. I, conversely, punched the air with glee.

Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t want us to look like creepy twins, or like that couple who wear one red one green Converse each that Alexander Fury keeps seeing in Tesco, but there’s something fun and ridiculous about being part of a secret gang of sorts who wear the same clothes and do the same shit. I love secret gangs: I used to wish when I didn’t have anyone to ride my bike with that I could get a whole gang of friends and dress them up in leather jackets, then we’d ride around and maybe find a secret island like in Swallows and Amazons, and hang out there for the afternoon. Come on! Who doesn’t want a secret gang? Handshakes and haircuts, secret words and songs, imagine it!

If you think about it being in a relationship with someone is a bit like being in a secret gang as long as you do it right. The best things about secret gangs are how everything cool you do is exclusive and under wraps. So if you and your boyfriend call each other pet names, or have private jokes, it becomes 100000000% less cool and fun when you say them in front of people. This goes double for dressing up. While Halloween is the one day of the year this advice/rule/whatever can take a hike, I want you first to look at Dough Reinhardt’s face and think twice before you dress as the tooth fairy and a… ummm…. depressed molar?

I find that most people and pets find being dressed up like an amusing toy incredibly humiliating no matter how much I’m, er I mean, you’re enjoying it which is a damned shame. Although, duh, your boyfriend isn’t a toy some days it would really be a lot better if he just let you do his mascara, draw a glitter lightning bolt on his face, and squeeze into some co-ordinating platforms, because then the two of you could act out some sweet as fuck Bay City Rollers videos. Or you could wear matching suits and pretend to be city boys. Or put on wigs and pretend to be Lady Gaga and her reflection. The possibilities are ENDLESS.

Just remember the secret gang’s rule: keep it indoors, because then no-one can laugh at you.

Pictures from Fuck Yeah Cute, I Love Pugs, and Jezebel

Firstly I want to apologise for the lack of posts lately, my lovely laptop Lindsay Dee Lohan Jr has a dodgy logic board and so she spent most of the week in the Apple Store until they told me the price, at which point I blanched, and whisked her back into my arms. Anyhow, I’ve managed to find a vague way round this problem so regular service will soon be resumed!

As an avid Archie reader since the age of 7 I for one am THRILLED to see him with someone other than the boring Betty and the mean Veronica. While I know NOTHING about Valerie, apart from her penchant for leopard print, I hope they’ll live happily ever after and that Archie won’t stop hanging out with Jughead, who was always the best character. Maybe Jughead can get with Betty? She seems like the type who could whip up a good hamburger… any thoughts?

Archie Comics via Jezebel

Height differences, marauding children, and TERRIFYING CHILDHOOD NIGHTMARES are on the menu this week so get ready to squee and SCREAM!

Hayden Panattiere and Wladimir Klitschko (just don’t look at her fake bake, ok?)

Russell Brand and Katy Perry (the couple that gets shakes from Maccy D’s together stays together?)

Reece Witherspoon, Jim Toth, and an umbrella wielding child.

Claudia Schiffer and Matthew Vaughn at the Kick-Ass premiere. Amazing dress for a pregnant lady, I love it!

Ice T and the amazing Coco at the Why Did I Get Married Too? premiere.

Eliza Dushku and Ronald MacDonald… wait WTF? GET AWAY ECHO! HE’S NOT WHAT HE SEEMS!

Pictures from ONTD, Starpulse, and Jezebel

And I don’t want to hear about him either. I don’t care if he bought you flowers, or took you to see a cute rabbit at the farm, I don’t even care if he’s really nice and likes all the same crap you like. I JUST DON’T CARE. If this sounds a bit extreme, let me break it down into exactly why I don’t give a toss.

1. They’re your boyfriend not mine.
No matter how sweet, caring, hot, amazing in bed, this person is, they aren’t doing any of this stuff to me. I don’t want them to do it to me, and I’m glad they’re doing all this supposedly great stuff to you, no, really I am, but it impacts so marginally on my life that to have to hear about, read about it, and get twittered at about it, all the freaking time is about as useful to me as you telling me about how relieved you after your first piss of the day.

2.  All this talking about them is eating into my valuable time.
And your valuable time, and dare I say it? our valuable time. We could be talking about how shitty Lady Gaga’s dancing is when compared with that of Beysus or why everything on the internet comes from 4chan. We could be having an intelligent discussion on the link between yamambas and Essex girls. We could teaching me to burp the alphabet. We could NOT be talking about how psyched you were when Tarquin ran you a bath after work.

3. I don’t know them.
When a friend goes out with a mutual friend there is a slightly more vested interest, I liked both of you enough to be friends with you in the first place evidently. But if I’ve only ever met him with you then I don’t have a clue what he’s like. Maybe in time we’ll get to be best buds, sharing a cup of cocoa in the kitchen before bed. It’s unlikely, he wants to stick his dick in you, I don’t: we are very different people.

4.  Are they really that amazing?
Really? Really really? If you wrote down their qualities objectively on paper would they be more amazing than Cory Doctorow? I mean seriously, think about it, he gave you a chocolate bar cos he called you a mean name when he was angry, really, it’s kind of douchey.

5. Unless it’s exciting, funny, or gross, I just don’t care.
Boyfriend fell over and farted on you? Great! You both dodged a speeding motorbike that nearly mowed you down? Amazing! He fell over while naked and arguing with you? Jackpot! Just think of the rule “Tits or GTFO” and you’ll see my conversation criteria.

Please don’t go away thinking I hate your other halves, or you, I really don’t. Your relationship is probably super exciting… to you and them. I’m sure that they make you see stars and fireworks when you kiss not pencils or empty ketchup bottles because, yeah, I get it, you’re in love. But don’t blame me if when I ask you how your weekend was and you reply with “Well, Rory Boring and I…” I high-tail it out of your presence.

Pictures from these three brilliant tumblrs: Vogue Weekend, Living Loving Maid, and Super Woodbinda.

I was 9 years old when I first read Nana. I was on holiday and had run out of books, so picked up the novel my Dad had just done with and tucked in. On first read I fell in love with the childish, impulsive, somewhat cruel, Nana and the heady perfume of her theatrical world. My first encounter with her was as she walked out onto the stage almost naked for her theatre debut at the tender age of 15. The hush of the crowd followed me through the book as Nana fucked, fought, and froliced with almost every male who run across her path. While she can hardly be considered to be a heroine in the heroic sense, and Zola is often at pains to point out how ignorant or immature she is, the sheer determination to make someone of herself is leaves its mark on even the hardest heart.

At the age of 9 I could hardly understand the not so subtle sexual tone of the book, but I loved Nana for bucking the system in every way she could, and having a bed surrounded by blue drapes and carved cherubs. Now, having read the book countless more times I love her pig headedness, her sharp tongue, and her girlish gaudiness. Had she been moved from the 1800s to now, I’d like to think her look would be perfect for any hopeful cocotte.

While Nana is a courtesan and proud of it she is always anxious to distance herself from the street walking friends she once had in looks as well as attitude. So while her taste runs to gaudy, (and what can be gaudier than D&G?) she is also effortlessly chic in that sickeningly Parisian way that I can only dream of. The main effect of a Nana-esque look should be a polished exterior concealing the minx within. Or rather as Henry James said: “instead of saying of Nana that it contains a great deal of filth, we should simply say of it that it contains a great deal of nature.” and you can’t go wrong when you act natural…

Further reading:
Wikipedia
Amazon