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

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

Someone once told me they were glad to be called shallow because it meant they were attractive enough to have that luxury. While this was, on their behalf, an utter fallacy, it’s an interesting idea. Shallowness is one of those things that we all fall prey to, and when we do, we tell ourselves it’s a one off, an exception, and that normally we wouldn’t behave like this, whereas to beautiful people who are used to getting by on the virtue of their looks alone it is every day sort of thing.

That’s not to say that beautiful people are also shallow, more that they benefit from it frequently, and rarely make a fuss. After all if you weren’t terribly bright, but had wonderful opportunities falling in your lap all the time, you’d take advantage of them too! It seems so unfair to those of us who are neither stunning nor infectiously charismatic, watching those who are less intelligent or driven than us suceed, but I like to think, like Earl, that karma has a funny way of sorting things out.

Let’s take for example, the time I attempted to put my brain on hold and date someone who wasn’t very bright. I’m not saying he was as stupid as my old flatmate who had anal sex ‘by accident’, or the intern who I watched stand outside our building for half an hour staring at the bell without pressing it, or even the girl who I convinced that ‘Smoksumgras’ was a nearby shopping centre, but just plain old not that sharp. My motivations weren’t entirely wholesome though, obviously. He was pretty, and sort of funny, and we’d had a drunken fumble and it had been quite enjoyable, so I thought that in the absence of a better candidate I would just hang out with him for a bit. Men, intelligent, funny, successful men, did this all the time I told myself. In retrospect this sounds really cruel, but he wasn’t picking out the flower arrangements yet either so it all seemed fine.

We went for exactly one date. One. In fact if we’re specific about this we went for half a date. In which time he had checked his hair behind my head so often that I had shouted at him, he had refused to eat any chips and marvelled at my capacity to pack them away, and told me I was being all fancy with my reference to Chairman Mao. The minute I finished my first drink I looked at my watch and asked if he wanted to hop it back to mine and watch a DVD. Although I thought we were both under no pretensions we did end up having to actually watch the DVD before making out, which seeing as I’d seen Vixen at least fifty times was slightly tiresome.

After he left I told myself it could be ok, we’d just talk about Hollyoaks (yay!) and people we knew. We’d eat separately and I’d just tell him to be quiet and look pretty if he started asking questions. Or start making out. Either way it was all going to be grand. After a while we’d almost definately have enough of a shared history for it not to matter anymore. Or we’d have moved on.

The latter occurred soon than I thought it would when, the next morning, I logged on to send him a message on Facebook to find him in a relationship with someone 7 years my junior. And that’s when I realised that he was way smarter than me any day.

Photo of Rock Hudson by unknown. (Please note I do not think Rock Hudson was stupid, in fact I am sure he was really really smart, as well as being smoking hot. Sigh.)

During London Fashion Week there are only two things to do: work like a donkey and drink to celebrate no longer working like a donkey. Though my involvement in LFW has, until recently, been fairly minimal I can’t refuse a party with free booze and so it was at one of these strange sleep deprived designer and half starved model filled do’s that I saw him: Brody. Until that night he had been someone I had googled, who’s picture had lurked in a folder to peek secretly at when I was bored, and who I had stared at blissfully across party after party. It was time to make this real. High on sugar and rum I shambled over to say hello and told him I was a friend of his friend Audrina’s. We chatted until everyone sane had left then stumbled upstairs to his car. Foolishly we drove around all night until 5.30am when we found ourselves alone in Hampstead: too far for me to go home and too close to his house not to pop by…

When I woke up from my couple of hour’s sleep, and some sloppy drunken making out, I was dizzy with excitement. This guy, the same one who I’d been dreaming about for months, was here with me and mostly naked! I leapt on top of him and kissed him, grinning from ear to ear like a maniac. He just lay there. Last night’s sugary drinks had made me insane and I bounced up and down gleefully as if two hours sleep was no thing. In my head fireworks were exploding by the dozen: me! him! here! together! Everything was going to be amazing!! As I darted around gleefully putting my clothes back on Brody stared silently. Just as I was about to leave I asked for his phone number. He looked confused but gave it anyway. I chalked it up to tiredness and walked to the tube station high on alcohol and seratonin.

A week later I was sitting at lunch with Audrina discussing what would happen next with Brody. He had been in touch yet only seemed faintly interested in meeting again. Audrina shrugged, “I don’t know what his problem was. He really liked you when I showed him your picture.” My fork stopped in mid-air. “What? You know I did this! You told me to!” The fork was stuck there. “You said you liked him, so when I ended up back at his house I told him, do you remember when I called you all drunk?” I remembered. “And you told me to tell him you liked him.” Did not. “So he asked what you looked like, and I showed him a picture …” Oh god. “… and just to be sure he wouldn’t forget you I gave him your number.” It’s all a dream, a horrible dream. “You asked me to help set you up! I was helping!”

I sat there thinking while Audrina fiddled with her phone. A man, a quiet, shy man, is accosted by Audrina who is a ditzy, babbling, girl. She tells him her friend fancies him and shows him a grainy picture, then proceeds to save the random girl’s number onto his phone. Later, while standing soberly at a party, said girl comes up, blithely introduces herself, then goes home with him, and proceeds to deny him sex but be happy to roll around in her underwear. The next morning she leaps around like the Tigger of romance and giggles like a giddy teen. It’s mind boggling just to think about never mind live through.

Audrina shrugged off the silence easily and we wandered to the video shop when she darted down an alley saying she’d meet me in a minute. Two doors later I ran smack into Brody and his best friend. We exchanged awkward hugs and I asked what he was doing so far from home. “You should know,” he replied curtly, “Audrina asked me where I was having lunch then said you might both pop by.” Brody looked over my shoulder. “I think she was hoping we could all bump into each other by ‘accident’.” He looked back over his. “That would have been brilliant.” His voice was becoming steadily more monotone. “I’d have really enjoyed something as unexpected as that.” After scanning the street comprehensively he looked back at me. No matter what I said he would never believe I hadn’t followed him here, or asked Audrina to paint me as a desperate harpy, it was pointless. While I gawped, trying to find the right phrase, he squeezed my arm and said goodbye. Then he, and the friend, ran until they were out of sight, never looking back.

Photos by Terry Richardson, and Alex Prager.

1. Always wear a condom.
Like duh. Duh duh and OHMYGOD DUH. There are so many freaking things that can infect, inhabit, and eat away at your genitals that it’s just not worth taking a chance. Also, if you get a scary sore on your genitals go get it checked! Alexi Wasser’s awesome blog reminded me of this recently and it is so so true. Who cares if it turns out to be an ingrown hair? Better that than ignore it till your lymph nodes start exploding out of your skin.

2. Don’t take a rock-a-billy guy home. Ever.*
Pomade is really hard to get off bed linen.

3. You are better than that shit.
Sometimes ‘that shit’ is the douchebag you’re with, the insane behaviour you’re exhibiting, or the shitty job you’re in; whichever it is you’re better than that! Think about it! Putting up with a ‘alright’ or downright cruddy life, or partner, means that you are saying that you’re not worth any more. Don’t you deserve to live your best life now? (I love you Oprah!) Aren’t you the most amazing person you know? Why not? Everyone has ugly bits of their body, have you ever seen Megan Fox’s thumb? Everyone is an annoying, nagging shrew sometimes, it’s ok! Flaws are what make us adorable! I hate to go all summer of 69 on you all but seriously you are amazing. Maybe you’re not all amazing all the time but it’s like Dr Manhattan says: “Millions upon millions of cells compete to create life for generation after generation until… against unfathomable odds it’s you, only you, that emerged to distil so specific a form from all that chaos. It’s like turning air into gold.”

4. Revenge is neither satisfying nor dignified.
One of the all time lows in my life was having a friend wrestle me to the floor to take my phone away while I screamed profanities into it. This was after an ex made the mistake of leaving me an abusive voicemail then not picking up when I called him back. The message I left him? I don’t even want to think about what it said but it definitely involved the words ‘fuck you you fucking motherfucker I will cut your head off and spit down your neck if you ever call me again’. It didn’t make me feel any better by the way, I just felt depressed that I’d let him get to me, and annoyed I’d recorded something so utterly mortifying.

5. When times get bad sing Jennifer Juniper to yourself.
It’s better than valium I swear.

Photo by Matthew Feyld. *Advice by Money For Jam

A few years ago I was living at my parent’s house in Massachusetts and feeling a tad lonely.  So, like the productive, go-getting gal I am I joined OkCupid (for the first time). Within minutes of finishing my profile I was shopping for boys with gay abandon, and found a pretty hipster who liked all the same sad things as me.  He had a handful of arty black and white pictures, a beard, and a really cute puppy. I was in internet love in seconds.

I pinged him a message, he replied, and soon we were messaging each other twee missives like there was no tomorrow, and arranged to meet up that weekend. Having never gone on an internet (dun dun dunnnn!) date before I told my parents that I was going, and a couple of friends, and crossed my heart that he wasn’t going to kill and eat me. If only he had, as I really think it would have topped off an evening of complete and utter doom.

We met on Boston Common and bought ice-creams to eat under the shade of a tree. The romance was killing me and I began to sweat. The boy pretended not to notice and asked me some innocuous question.  I was so nervous that I started babbling and could not stop. For an hour I talked complete and utter nonsense about trees, and kittens, glitter getting stuck in your hair, and cotton wool tasting bad, while he ate his Klondike and stared at me. Suddenly it was dark so he suggested we go to another part of town and get a drink. I shut up for a second to nod and we dashed off.

On the T we had sat awkwardly in the neon light and I had tried really discretely to tell if I was smelly due to my nervous sweating. It was hard to know. As we exited at street level, and walked over a busy flyover I noticed a 4 car pile up on the road below. Being giddy on adrenaline, and also a total blood junkie, I bellowed “Oh my GOD! We have to look!” and battled my way through the crowd to get a good peering spot. The boy listlessly followed me and frowned, “It’s really gross, and callous, to look.” He turned away and lit a cigarette. I realised we would never bond over a Jack The Ripper book, and turned away from the carnage. My dreams of twee kissing to a backdrop of blood and flames melted. I realised I was totally screwed in the head and he probably thought I was a psychopath. I wondered if I was a psychopath. We walked to the bar in silence.

As we arrived he held out an arm, “Wait, you do have your ID, right?”. Of course I didn’t, as in England once you look over 12 you’re fair game. With a sigh the boy told me to wait outside on a nearby smoker’s bench and he’d sort it out. I gave him $20 to make it a bit better. After he snuck the second drink out in his jacket pocket the bartender came over to tell us that we were not allowed back in. Ever. I suggested the boy escort me back to my train station and he agreed.

However once we got to North Station I realised that I’d missed the last train home and there was no way my parents would drive 2 hours to pick me up. I called them and said I would stay with a friend, and then looked at the boy. He sighed so long and so hard that I swear my hair ruffled. Then he looked at the floor, I looked at it too and wondered what it would be like to sleep on for the next nine hours. “I guess you can stay at mine.” He mumbled and we got back on the T wordlessly.

That night, while I attempted to sleep in all my stinky, sweaty clothes, I wondered if maybe his puppy would pee on me, or whether his fan would explode and cut my head open. I mean it had to get worse somehow, right? As I drifted off and rolled onto my side I felt something solid but soft next to my face. I opened my eyes slowly and saw that he had been noiselessly creating a wall of duvets and comforters for the last hour or so. It was higher than my head and stretched the full length of the bed. I looked at it hard in the dark and promised myself I would never ever EVER date anyone with only arty pictures on their dating profile again. Ever.

Photo by Laura Appleyard

I guess it’s always good to start with the classics when going through date locations, after all they’re probably classics for a reason! So let’s start with the timeless dinner date.

Personally I love dinner dates: if you pick the right spot they’re warm, cosy, last just the right amount of time, and if you’re very lucky you might not have to pay the bill. Oh and they involve lovely lovely food, duh!

Firstly DO NOT worry about eating in front of someone! If you envision a future with this person, and I assume you do since you’re going on a date and not just fucking, you will have to eat with them and often. Obviously you want to keep your gob shut while eating, never talk with your mouth full, and avoid anything that is liable to stain your top, but Jesus H Christ you shouldn’t be doing that in public anyway! This isn’t primary school!

Back to the point… I can imagine nothing worse than going somewhere posh and quiet with someone who I hardly knew. Not because I fear smart restaurants, in fact if a man took me to Claridges I’d throw a fit of joy, but because it would be such a difficult place to get to know someone. How could we bond while I worried what side plate to use, and whether I sit straight enough? There’s no way I could offer to pay the bill and so I would feel indebted to the other person which would really set the date up badly in my eyes. FYI: anyone who’s only in dating for the free dinners and bad sex doesn’t deserve the treat, so don’t bother.

I believe the key to an amazing dinner date is keeping it casual. Near my house is the perfect diner with big snuggly leather booths to hunker down in which serves delish milkshakes and macaroni cheese, and is utterly unpretentious. Most Sundays you can find my best friend and I in there surrounded by newspapers and ketchup stained napkins chatting and dancing to the 70s classics blaring from the radio, so when it comes to picking a date location I almost always choose it, which is kind of embarrassing to admit! Ok so it’s not the classiest joint and if my date chooses a burger it’s pretty funny watching them try to eat it with gravitas, but I feel so comfy and happy there it doesn’t matter, and as long as he doesn’t splat ketchup in my face he can gnaw away for as long as he pleases.

When you make dinner a grand affair on which your budding relationship does or dies you are only setting yourself up for failure. Take a chill pill and discover the magic of dragging your beau down to your favourite coffee place, diner, burger joint (but not Maccy D’s that’s a step too far!), or pancake house, and sharing cherry pie while moving ever closer across a leatherette booth. Only rotate your locations because otherwise the waitresses start winking at you, and that can get really awkward really quick. Not that I know that from experience… obviously!

Photo of Patrician Grill Restaurant by Paul Gorbould, photo of The New Piccadilly by Bowbrick.

It seems that with some friendships, no matter how platonic they start out, sex lingers in the background. After all you get on so well that taking it a step further is only natural, right? Asking a friend out on a date would be strange so testing the waters by engineering a ‘not date’ is totally understandable, right? Right?

Wrong.

Everyone gets lonely and loneliness can make you crazy, wistful, horny, weepy, or all of the above: what’s important is how you act on your feelings. Real friends are happy to give you a hug and sympathetic ear without turning it into a sloppy grope-fest. It might feel like they know so much about you and how you feel deep inside the sad cave that is your soul, but only because you’re telling them every two fucking seconds. Of course they’re sympathetic: they’re your friend! That doesn’t mean they’re game to have a poke on. Go on OkCupid, take a friend to a bar and have a pulling competition, whatever. Just don’t destroy a great thing for a few hours pashing.

Forgetting this key point is when the not date occurs and it can happen two ways: by mistake or on purpose.

I really want to give everyone the benefit of the doubt and say that most of the time it’s a mistake. A few drinks, a bit of dancing, and what started out innocuous is now a raging ball of hormones and vodka. However, thinking with your desperate genitals is never the answer.

As your beer boner rages, take the opportunity to have a time out: smoke a cigarette, go for a wee, do your hair, buy another drink, fuck it - anything to get away. Think about how valuable this friendship is to you. This could be the start of a love story or the end of a friendship: it’s your call.

If you choose to take the plunge then own it! Go back in and say, “I am so lucky to have an amazing friend like you and I’m glad we hung out like this. This might sound strange but I really want to kiss you right now.” Or, you know, something less cheesy. Whatevs, it’d probably work on me. If they’re freaked out laugh it off. You can always cry later.

Now if you planned this hoax of an evening then shame on you. Shame. On. You. No-one wants to feel like they’ve been strung along, so have some balls and admit what you’re up to. Use that cheesy line or blurt it all out stream of consciousness style until they start snogging you to make it stop. Again, the worst that will happen is they tell you they’re not interested.

The friend on the receiving end of unrequited love might feel awkward. They might stop hanging out. These things happen. It can hurt hard and you might wish you’d never taken that chance. The only thing to do is think how you would have felt with that secret burning away and be grateful that you know they are not interested so you can stop wasting all your energy loving them. It may sound callous but there is nothing to be gained from pining after someone if they have made it clear they do not feel the same way. Packing all those feelings away neatly never to be opened again is hard, really fucking hard, but in the long run it’ll be worth it because one day you’ll find someone who makes you want to set the world on fire and you won’t find them while standing outside your old crush’s window blasting Peter Gabriel.

Basically what I’m trying to say is if you value that friendship more than anything then leave it alone. If you two are meant to be then it’ll happen, just give it time! You need your friends more than you need bumming, so respect the fact that they don’t try to put their hands down your pants every three seconds for the wonder that it is and stop humping their leg!

Beatles Badge Photo by Leo Reynolds, painting by Yoshitomo Nara.