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

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.

When I was a kid I told my mum that when I grew up I wanted ‘a red car, red dress, and red stilettos’ much like, it turns out, Cassandra in Wayne’s World. Though she looks totally sweet in a hair metal groupie sort of way, and I have always admired the work of Bebe Buelle and Sable Starr, I’ve found over the years that I’ve gravitated towards clothes with much less stretch lace, and a lot of bows and ruffles. Gradually the older I become the more childish my clothing choices. Only the other day I was thinking about getting my hair cut and the only photo I could find that in any way related to what I wanted was the youngest girl from The Chronicles of Narnia. Looking at that photo I would actually kill to own that cardi and dress too. Phwoar. Amazing.

Although wearing childish clothes could imply I’m some sort of infantilised, sexless, girl-child, forever trying to recapture a youth I never really had, it couldn’t be further from the truth. I don’t want to start deconstructing my outfit choices because I dread turning this post into Pseuds Corner, but it seems that both men and women are obsessed with judging people on the way they dress. It is apparently imperative that we all have a distinguishable look, one that is solid, unchangeable, and instantly recognisable. There is not scope for moods, changes of attitude, or concessions to comfort. If you want to look sexy, and attract men for one night stands (it appears) you need to wear something short, tight, or low-cut, and preferably all three. If you wear glasses you could maybe be a ‘sexy secretary‘ (extremely NSFW link!!! hint: it features a video of Sasha Grey) but if you fail that test you’re relegated to quirky, cutesy, or worse: interesting. Wait, you can only be one of these things by the way! If you were both things surely that would mean you were not only sentient and possibly interesting but also a sexual creature. Madness. We all know these things can’t go hand in hand.

I’m not saying men get off much better than women in this ridiculous charade, however the manners in which men have to dress to be considered sexy, seem to be a lot less time consuming than they are for women. Really everyone gets a bum deal, forcing us all to either feel dour and neutered or constantly on and aware of our sexuality. What we need to do is recognise that much like with sex itself different things can make different people’s heads turn. Whether its a ruffle along a neckline, or an pea-coat hitting a hipbone at a certain angle there’s something to float everyone’s sartorial boat.

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

Online dating intrigues me. Everything else in my life from where I go out, to what shoes I buy, seems to be tied to the internet so it just seems natural that I should go about finding someone to go out with in the same way. Plucking up the courage to contact a random pretty stranger is amazing and something I find insanely hard. Even replying to messages is an uphill struggle. Flattered as I am that anyone would want to message a girl who admits that she loves burping on her profile page, some of the messages are insane. Here are some of my (and my lovely friends’) ‘best’ messages…

I’M DOING FUCKING GREAT JEFF THANKS FOR ASKING!!

I really don’t get this. It’s such a random thing to offer to buy someone. I guess he just knows that since I have ovaries I love frozen yoghurt!

Firstly would you do that? And secondly am I the beautiful girl? Or is there a random beautiful girl who he is offering to me that will do anything? Is this sex trafficking?

In my profile I mention that I’m applying for an American visa, so I see he thought that the way to capitalise on this was with some casual racism.

Probably not send passive aggressive illiterate messages which contain backhanded compliments!

This message was sent to a friend of mine who is studying Japanese. Neither she, nor I, have any idea what he is wittering about, or what to reply to it. Suggestions?

This was sent to a heterosexual female. Classy!

Despite all these terrible, confusing, grammatically incorrect, messages sometimes there’s one that is full of win:

I hope he uses that line on every girl.

Do you have any better ones? Or, like me, do most of yours just say “Hey! Wanna make out???”

It was a party in Peckham, I think I was wearing a ruff, and I know was drunk. On the other side of the dance floor was an attractive young man. He smiled at me, and I ambled over. We chatted about whatever it is two people witter about at 5am in a freezing cold warehouse. He said his name was Patrick and touched my arm for emphasis every other word. As we said goodbye at the bus stop I was on cloud 9. His pretty, funny face filled my head for days.

Maybe a month later I bumped into him. This time he was with a friend, also called Patrick. We chatted again for ages, hidden in the corner of a noisy bar, whispering in each other’s ears, and I fell head over heels in like with him. When I got home I told my Best Friend Forever about this guy who I’d met who was super cute and had a friend with the same name as him. The BFF stared at me. “Are you joking? Do you really not remember that you slept with some called Patrick, who has a friend called Patrick, a couple of years ago? At that house party in Notting Hill?” In an instant the memory rushed back to me. Me and Patrick sitting under a blanket snogging, then, well I’m sure you can guess. I couldn’t believe what a moron I’d been. Surely he was laughing about this right now. He and all his friends probably thought I was mental. I wanted to cry.

For a blissful while Patrick dropped off my radar and I brushed aside those horrible blush inducing thoughts. It wasn’t until Christmas when I saw him again. This time, worse than a ruff, I was wearing what will go down in history as the worst outfit ever: black boots, black tights, a grey leotard, and an acrylic jumper with stars and moons knitted into it. What possessed me I will never know. Anyway I was wearing this horrific outfit and walked into Patrick.

“Oh hiiiiii!” I squawked, shame filling up every pore.
“Hey,” He smiled blithely. “How are you?”
“Um. Fine, yeah whatever. Look, I need to ask you something.”
“Sure, what?”
My best friend was stood behind Patrick shaking his head.
“Well, this is going to sound really odd, but um, I think we’ve met before.” I may have winked.
“Yes, I know, we’ve met lots of times before.”
“No, no, you’re not listening. We’ve met, like before then.” I definitely winked this time.
“What are you talking about?”
My BFF leapt up and down. ‘No! No!’ he mouthed.
“Well. There was this party… and I met you. It was like 2 years ago. And we sat under a blanket…”
His face turned ashen.
“And then, you, and I,” My hands started making strange gestures that could only mean one thing.
The BFF slumped into a chair.
Patrick grabbed the arm of a girl who had been standing by him. “This is my girlfriend.”
“Oh. That’s nice.” I turned around and walked away into the crowd hoping they would engulf me like grey goo. They didn’t.

Soon after I started working in a bar. Patrick would drop in occasionally only to avoid me at all costs. On a rare night off I decided to take advantage of my co-workers’ generosity and get some free drinks. Patrick was there. He came over, was extremely affable, and told me that he had split up with his girlfriend. Later that night, after watching Mondo Topless at my flat, we ended up sleeping together again. It was fun, but when he didn’t call I decided to let it go. Things quickly went back to being awkward. That was fine by me.

But no, it didn’t end there. While working in the bar on a quiet Sunday afternoon other Patrick and a girl came in and sat at the counter. They were whispering and nudging each other while I made a cocktail with a co-worker. We shuffled down the bar to listen in better.

Patrick was using a stage whisper so was pretty easy to hear. “… so he and she slept together, and then they both forgot about it. And then they slept together again.”
The girl giggled.
“I know, but that’s not the best bit! The other day,” Patrick paused for effect. “He told me he still wanks about her.”

My co-worker dropped a glass and it smashed. All four of us stood frozen in the moment. I heard Patrick and the girl leave. And then I laughed till I cried.

Photos by Holgabot, and Ryan McGinley. P.S All names have been changed, obviously!

Welcome to another regular feature, where I read dating books so you don’t have to!

This month I read How To Make Anyone Fall In Love With You by Leil Lowndes. Lowndes’ concept is basically that everyone is an insecure puppy craving attention from someone who appears to like most of the same stuff as them, and therefore by faking these interests while laying on compliments thick and heavy you will fool them and they will fall head over heels in lurve with you. Let me break her ideas down so you never have to bother cracking the cover…

1. Men and women are utterly different. Women want to talk about stuff, but men want to do things.

Lowndes says that a woman will only go somewhere active with a man to make him happy, and that you should fake that love of windsurfing, spelling bees, or blood sports, till you make it. Apparently a man just needs to ask me how I feel, or whether I’m truly truly happy, to win his way into my cold cold heart.

As a woman who hates talking about her feelings with a passion I have to disagree. Also where are these feeling hating fuck-it-lets-do-it men that Lowndes seems to bump into all the time? London is full of touchy-feely saps who want to know all about my period pains and discuss the relative merits of Belle and Sebastian versus Hefner, and therefore if I were to attempt to go on an ‘active’ date with them, I reckon nothing more strenuous than watching a Pastels special on VHS would occur.

2. All anyone wants in a partner is a cheerleader.

I mean, not literally a cheerleader, but someone to tell them what a unique never to be bettered snowflake of a person they are all day, every day, for the rest of their godawful life. Apparently the reason that relationships fail is because someone forgets to say “I love the way you chopped those mushrooms darling.” or “It’s so amazing when you stroke my cheek.” I am not even joking, these are actual examples from the book.

Of course people want to know they’re great, but a never ending stream of sugary compliments would any sane person up the wall. Also, what is never explored is what if you do all these things and the other person professes to be in love with you, and they do none of these things back? In fact why are you with someone who needs constant reassurance? Isn’t that what babies and dogs are for?

3. When people fancy each other they leave do all sorts of strange things with their body language. If you fake all that then someone will fall in love with you.

Apparently lowering your eyes and then looking up very slowly through your eyelashes, touching their arm for emphasis, and mirroring the way they are standing are all things to give your crush the not so subtle hint that you like them. Oh and wearing a strapless dress because they’ll think of you naked OH NO WAIT that’s from Clueless. Easy mistake to make…

In conclusion… What Lowndes barely addresses is once you’ve faked an interest in Cro-Mags, Bambi-eyed them, and complimented their prowess at Call of Duty, where you go from there? How do you live as a mirror to their greatness? Where do you come in? Relationships are a two way street and Lowndes seems to forget this repeatedly. What happens when you find yourself standing at a sweaty anarchist march with a bunch of Spanish punk-a-bestias and realise that you just want to be at home slagging off the Sex and The City The Movie while eating microwaved pizza? What then? Lowndes just doesn’t know.

Alternate recommendation: How To Lie With Statistics

Photo by Bob Fornal