Sunday, 24 May 2009

So trendy it doesn't have a tube, and gold hot pants can get you in anywhere.

" So where's the after party? Joiners?," Then a look of displeasure entered his face, " Like every other fucking afterparty, every week."
Said gay was complaining at BBB, but let's face it who doesn't complain at BBB these days. Daniel Lismore's days at the height of fashionable society are fading fast and the free night of hyperfashionista cocktails has turned into a few desperate old tranny's and a gaggle of Essex girls who have the gall to ask, " Why are you dressed  up?" Honey, you are in East London. 
Yes this is East London and that means you need not restrict your weekend nights to one party and a dirty, crowded late night gay bar with the odd house party (which in London are very hit or miss). But it does take a little bus ride, up to up and coming Dalston, for the Superstore.
Ah Dalston, a place filled with down dressing hipsters who hypocritically beride Shoreditch for being pretentious, clearly they think because their neighbourhood is not serviced by London Underground they are just so cutting edge. But there is an attraction to this underdeveloped, dirty, crime ridden area, sort of like the intrigue surrounding raves in third world countries. But unlike Nigeria Dalston does have a Nando's on the corner, so clearly it would seem gentrification is eminent.  However not having a tube could save Dalston from the fate currently being suffered by Hoxton and Old Street, Essex Invasion. As these areas are so close to the great Liverpool Street Terminus servicing such fabulous breeding grounds of some of the worst people in Britain such as Shenfield and Romford, they can just roll off the train and totter up the street in heels they have no idea to walk in. Getting to Dalston is hardly for the faint hearted and unsavy country folk, it's a good fifteen minutes with plenty of gorgeous scenery including housing estates and more than a few flashing sirens. But it isn't a party unless there is the danger of being knifed. So it's quite possible the common people will not venture into Dalston, except those immigrant masses placed there under some generous government housing scheme (which explains the Nandos).
Now to the club, Dalston Superstore, clubs like this are why London has one of the best gay and clubbing scenes in the world. It was housed in some lovely converted convenience shop, with a skylight, projected tranny film, fabulous avant garde posters of art and photography. It just prompts the question when you see something so well and apparently effortlessly done, why can't more gay places be like this?? No where in Soho can even hold a candle to this, with the possible exception of The Friendly Society. 
Upstairs in the sort of lounge, bar bit some lovely remixed eighties was playing, for the slightly discerning alternative but still a bit of stereotypical queen gay who can't resist some Madonna, I must say I enjoyed it. Downstairs on the other hand was EPIC, I loved it. The dancefloor was on fire with the electro techno remix mastery of Trailer Trash doing a set. Some of the best music I've heard ever, edging out Friday night's Trailer Trash warehouse party by a hair. And of course there was heavy light and strobe display happening in the hot little basement, for those on some alternative medicines.
The crowd was the sort of typical strain that frequents establishments with unisex toilets. Half drop dead gorgeous, a bit older, muscley, alternative, well dressed, though this being Dalston not overly unless of course a tranny or girl. (But it's not like my gold hotpants were not appreciated quite the opposite). The other half on the quite old side who look like they could give you five different STDs or teenage club kids trying their hardest to contract some. Nothing to complain about.
An incredible dance, in a great space, with hot, interesting people. Sadly only open until two on Sunday night but there was a great cheap kebab shop across the road to cushion the blow of the loss and restore much needed calories post boogie. And of course it was packed unlike a certain other bank holiday club night....


Thursday, 30 April 2009

Fuck Simplicity

I feel like being nineteen justifies dressing with extreme extravagance and gaudiness so far removed from simplicity and conventional good taste. Which is why on my latest troll through Vienesse second hand shops I emerged with a pink visor, neon fanny pack, feather mask, sequined and shoulder padded blue mohair jumper, gold foil shirt with more shoulder pads, XXL shoulderless button up dress, gold chain with sea stars, huge vest top in bright blue, and neon paisly print tee shirt. Mind you I think there are a few more pieces of delightfully bizarre Euro-Trash acquired but these are all that spring to mind. And of course all this only set me back about twenty euros.

I do envy people that can sum up their personal style in a simple phrase,or possibly even one word. Like 'modern geisha', 'black', 'Victorian', or 'structure'. People who's closets look like an All Saints showroom with every peice entirely related to one esthetic. If I had to sum up my present style it would probably be somethign like. " 1980's English lord's son, takes loads of E, goes through his mum's jewelry and makeup, and all the historical costumes in the attic, then on a particuarly interesting trip believes he is living in 2050 during some post apocolyptic tribal warfare." Like I said simple. I think the big problem is,is that I just wear and possess a dizzying spectrum of clothes that defy explatation under a common denominator. That being said my main look for spring is inspired by tribal sub cultures that will result after the collapse of modern civilisation.

As I write this in the Vienna airport the little boy sitting across from me asked his nanny, " Is that a boy or a girl?" I am only slightly offended, actually I should be flattered. Androgony Acheived! But seriously such a little twat, it's not like I'm a pre-op transexual.


Monday, 27 April 2009

' I was so bored I ate carbs'

The ex lover.
Me, after one biscuit too many. Night in question was not a good one for my face.

You all know my opinion regarding The Ghetto. I reiterate Oh how the mighty have fallen.  It is actually quite sad. There is no way that place is financially solvent at the moment.  I had not ventured to New Ghetto ever since that post Circus revel that left me sorely disappointed, where the place had been deserted on a Saturday night. A combination of credit crunch and bad locale. Clearly the management of what used to be one of the coolest alternative gay clubs in London is in a panic and will try anything to attract more, or in fact any people. This includes spreading their legs so wide it is free entry all night for anyone, cheap drinks (that no one buys, well when there are ten people in a club who can blame them), and a late late license all to no avail. What they should do is get Sam Sparro or some quite big star/dj somehow quite cheaply then charge ten pounds head to get in, provided you are dressed up, if not twenty. Watch the cash roll in. But their latest effort to shock some life into the useless corpse that lies in the middle of Angel-Barbican- 'no where near' as advertised Old Street was to employ 'London's most eccentric dresser' Daniel Lismore to round up his muses, tranny's, and club children from their corral at BBB and thrust them into disco dance dress up party. You have to give them credit for this move.
Indeed, Daniel Lismore was on some extensive Facebook whoring for this one. I am pretty sure a day did not go by last week when I did not get a message about the new club night Disco Biscuit: trashy, horny, fabulous, eclectic, Sunday dance night of your life. Everyone knew about it, at Trannyshack on Wednesday everyone was talking about it. The big problem, no one went.
In the words of my new friend Nadir , " Why did I spend eight hours on these ostrich feather and sequin shoulder pads when no one is here to see them?"
No I showed up around midnight, I'd been working, got done early and thought why not, a little dress up, a little dance with the fabulous Daniel Lismore crew. Quite acceptable. Parts of the Daniel Lismore crew were there, but they were the only ones present. A few tranny's in exotic head pieces, gorgeous fashion students in vintage, and Japanese girls plastered in the foil that was decorating the walls. So at least it was not a repeat of my last ventures, where the few people there were unattractive, at least everyone was somewhat fit and well dressed. Not that this could rescue the night.
I stay an hour, met a jilted ex-lover. Or thought he was a jilted ex-lover until he texted me from across the room (he still had my number, shit! I'm flattered) then proceeded to take pictures and feed me the complimentary biscuits all night. The free cookies were the high point of the evening. Still I didn't think it advisable to just launch into where we left off, making out at Trailer Trash, so I let him trot off with an incredibly short little thing. The music was tolerable and fun but I was hardly worshipping at the alter of the DJ booth and was quickly quite bored, maybe if I had been on loads of coke or something it would have been different, alas I was sober. So I got my picture taken then fucked off.
A decent but misguided attempt at a new club night. Why misguided? Three words Horse Meat Disco. Same night, same music, open later, more people, world famous. Shit Ghetto someone made a mistake.

Tuesday, 21 April 2009

Give me this!!!

Dior Haute Couture Spring 2004.
All I can say is that I would give some non essential limbs just to wear it for one night. Or to just get that headpiece.

Monday, 20 April 2009

My Saturday night in Video form

Oh Saturday, where to fucking begin.
Slave to Fashion, free champagne, mirror mask, house party invite, long ass bus ride with poverty stricken immigrants, cut hot Czech guy with the edge of mirror mask, he bled, got off said bus too early, trannys wanted chicken, Japanese girls crowed and squacked, found house party (it was just beyond the crime scene), said house party was in a creepy basement filled with inebriated tranny's dancing to forty's swing music. If ever What the fuck was used to describe a night, this is the appropriate time. But it was fabulous, I felt the love for the mask, met loads of great people, lot's of pictures were taken, and videos filmed. An overall success.
Currently attempting to become Daniel Lismore's flatmate. Wish me luck.

Thursday, 9 April 2009

Essex Invasion

" When I go out," my friend Bianca explained, " I decide to either show my legs and cover up my top or show the top and cover up my legs, I don't show everything at once, like that."
We looked across the road where the girls in high heels they didn't know how to walk in, skirts so short the world was their gynocologist, and breasts nearly exploding out of that strapless dress all while the girls made some rude pelvic thrusting motions at the cars that felt it prudent to honk at them. These sort of creatures are a very common occurance in such tourist bile holes as Leicester Square, Soho, and Piccadily Circus but they are headed East. Oh yes much to the horror of the emaciated, narcisistic masses of East London the scum of London clubland: the chav's in their skimpy Primark, Indian men in ill fitting suits, and of course Essex girls are invading Hoxton Square.
I knew we were in trouble when wearing my armour and Grace Jones hood we sauntered into Baby Beach Towel Babylon for Slave to Fashion. An amazing industry cocktail party, that is always free, and once it gets late enough full of gorgeous people caked in glitter, wearing sequined American football pads and a Darth Vadar mask. We had to hit up the Trailer Trash Warehouse rave afterward so we thought it prudent to arive a half ten. It was a bit of a shock. Outside, the smokers queue did not seem to posess anyone of merit. We entered, we found ourselves in the middle of a lavishly decorated dining room filled with businessmen and Essex girls, we went into the basement, more suits and short hem lines but then like a beacon of light we saw Daniel Lismore in some green cape concotion, a feirce tranny in some tight black number, and a gorgous German boy wearing what looked like Gareth Pugh. We ran to them like a life raft shoving our way through the hen night girls wanting to dance to the 'alternative' English pop , fortunately Daniel gave us complimentary champagne we started having a little chat. Indeed as the hours wore on things improved dramatically. By midnight, electro laced Grace Jones was blaring, and photographers were swarming over tonnes of gorgeous gay men wearing millinary, and girls in seventies jumpsuits with fake eyelashes. The Essex crew had no doubt retreated in mixed amusement and fear to the upstairs where they still were not safe, what with trannys on running about fighting over who stole the coke spoon. Fortunately at Trailer Trash there was not even a hint of the West End crowd so my mind was suddenly put at ease.
Until I saw on Facebook that this horrible Kate Hollis who is always inviting me to On Anon, Tiger Tiger, ick, ick is hosting an Easter party at the Hoxton Pony. Shoreditch has been introduced as the next place to party for the uncouth,unfabulous, and unfashionable. So grab your gold dipped fur, and skin tight jumpsuit and retreat deeper into Hackney. Possibly to Images (it will be a while before the Essex girls find that one).

Monday, 6 April 2009

Minimalist Esthetic

After piling on garish neon prints, anything remotely metallic and shiny (preferably gold and preferably dripping in sequins), anything animal print (still need to buy some zebra have tiger and leopard unless you count the neon animal print tee shirt which I was madly in love with on a certain night I did not sleep) my passionate love affair with eighties club wear rages on.
However I like to say it is futuristic clothing, afterall the eighties adopted very futuristic design in all aspects of society from fashion to electric music to skyscrapers, now those strong shoulders and skinny leggings are back and I am embracing them with open arms. In my opinion since we live in the 21st century it's time to start dressing like it. Like Ronke Ihkaria, think Alek Wek in London street fashion, whom I would pretty much give all my fingers to look like. I saw her this weekend at the Trailer Trash warehouse birthday party wearing a shiny leather catsuit, and she wasn't just leaning against the wall being haughtily fabulous in it. She was dancing for all she was worth to that dirty electro disco like secret agent of the future she was.
Feast your eyes on her at (alternatively go to Rokit Brick Lane where she works to see her in action):
But I digress so after spending the weekend in gold leggings, a suit of armour that looked like it had been used to film The Predator. Equipped with this dress philosophy I rolled in from some exotic north London locality this morning in last night's tiger, gold chain, and print hood scarf at the hour of eight a.m. no less. This is what you get for having sex with people with real jobs, but if you can handle the lack of sleep I highly recommend it.
You will be very proud of me, I did not go back to bed when I got home, I had some muesli, watched an AB FAB packed my school bag and prepare yourself, I went to the library. As I was in this library mood I decided to channel some simplicity and austerity. Drop crotch trousers, pointy patent ankle boots, grey tee shirt, and brown blazer, with my glasses (that are quickly gaining London wide fame). Though I definitely knew the strictly business look, looked good I didn't know it looked this good. Two style bloggers snagged me on my way home (which was at three when my body with it's three hours of sleep was begging for mercy and a reprive from academia). Which is definitely a record for just Carnaby and Great Portland Street. The lovely Australian Vanessa Jackman just put my photos up which as someone who vainly trolls blogs on an hourly basis after my picture is taken I strongly appreciate. I really need to work on that. Check her out here:
Now that I have been exposed to the benefits of looking chic, polished, and successful ( basically like an actual adult who has a real job) I think I will definitely repeat some variations on this theme in the near future. For the time being however bring on that polyvinyl, purple Uniqlo creation with hood that would look oh so good with my gold chain...

Monday, 30 March 2009

Me at Gutterslut

I don't know who the hairy man is, he just wanted in the picture (?) Shame you can't see the trousers, my new drop crotches pulled up to the knee to reveal sparkling leggings clothing my calves, and pointy shoes. A good filthy gorgeous night in Hackney.

Sunday, 29 March 2009


As I descend deeper into androgyny Grace Jones is becoming a bit of a Goddess to me. I have decided that gender is a social construction and we should be able to break these 'rules' that men shouldn't wear makeup or leggings. Girls have since feminist liberation been able to wear anything so it's time the other half enjoyed the same privileges and fabulous cosmetics. I have been told I have a very androgynous face and I am really enjoying playing with makeup and really overtly feminine clothes (sequined butterfly top anyone?) that are suddenly offset by something incredibly masculine in the same outfit (leather motorcycle gloves). It is a complete display of human sexuality, feminine face, masculine skinny muscled arms, all in the same person. Going out at night is all about the Fantasy, it is a different world from the realm of light, live in that different world surrender your black and white boy girl identity. Blur the line. Enter the Fantasy without the barriers of gender, sexuality, and expectation. Of course Grace Jones and I quite often take the fantasy onto the next day, but why not? We live in the twenty first century afterall, the future is now, let's start looking like it.
By the way that James Bond film, incredibly bizarre. But I want everything Grace Jones is wearing.
P.S. Darlings. Check this out for more Grace pics:

Friday, 27 March 2009

I'm famous

East End Thrift Store Party

" The last fair deal in town," the neon green flyer proclaims.
Fuck that.
The East End thrift store is, once you brave the creepy back alleys of White Chapel a bit of a dissapointment. The word thrift store usually implies that things are, now here is a novel idea, but cheap. And when I say cheap I mean five pounds maximum. I think the only things that were five pounds was this belt dragged out of the seventies, quite forcibly it would seem as it had almost snapped in half.
First let us focus on the positive, it was a fantastic little party. The venue, whitewashed warehouse stuffed with vintage oddities= amazing. The people= gorgeous. The wine=free. The men= half were gay. The music= began at seven with Elvis and ended up in minimal electro trance territory around ten, how did we get here? So it really was a very successful night from all other perspectives. Actually from all perspectives I ended up dropping thirty pounds.
These days I am quickly realising I have a problem, I am reminded of this every month when I finally run out of clean socks and the only underwear left are the 'special occasion' Dolce and Gabbanna's. When I am faced with such dire circumstances I cave and use the student halls laundry facilities, to the great detriment of my pocket book. So I wash all my clothes and realise when my closets and drawers are full to the brim that I have an incredible amount of clothes. The fact I can go for a month wearing new clean outfits everyday is a testement to this. Perhaps a bit of false economy but why spend twelve pounds to wash your clothes when you can get a new outfit for that. And to aggravate this problem most of the newest additions to my happy wardrobe are one off space age stripper clothes that I can't figure out just how to wear. Like the blue spandex biker trousers from Berlin with bright yellow stripes running down either side, What does that match with? Or the sequined leggings, I've had them for a month and still haven't worn them (but this weekend that will change, I am committed).
In either case last night I picked up some new additions, a triangular cut black silk number that reveals my abs and has a massive gold sequin butterfly emblazoned across the chest. Trust me, it is pure sex, I've just realised I will make a new feature of putting up pictures of myself before I go out, that will be fun. So there is the butterfly sex top that really accentuates my shoulders set me back twenty pounds and then there is the yellow hooded cape.
We were at a loss to acurately describe said cape, I was thinking the forest guards from the M. Night Shalaman film The Village. My friends thought Frodo Baggins meets a Dementor. Some kids we just met said it is the love child of Vivenne Westwood and Gareth Pugh. So the story I am sticking to is that Gareth took me back to his studio and sewed it for me during our night of love. Sadly not true unlike the story regarding the jacket I stole from Jodie Harsh, now that is true. In either case it was a tenner=irresistable.
I suppose for the sheer volume of fabric I made out with a deal but the thing needs desperately pinned and sewn into an acceptable shape. In the meantime it is hanging off my closet door, all seven feet of it.
Come to think of it I shouldn't bash the clothing selection, all of us bought something quite nice, and moderately priced. But it is just I was expecting massive, fabulous selection, dirt cheap. What we got was blah selection with a few jems that you had to wade through the press of gorgeous people piled up between the racks to get your hands on. Mind you this is not wading through the press in Primark beating off thirteen year old chavs and obese African women for that five pound leather jacket or perhaps that flourescent cylinder bag. The East End thrift store promises the absolute finest in crowded shopping. They will put only the hottest, best dressed people between you and that mini dress covered in parrots.
The sales staff was incredibly nice, everyone was up for a chat. We met great new people, got slightly tipsy, bought some things we maybe shouldn't have. All in all a lovely platform from which to launch to the Hoxton Bar and Grill. Where of course I was wearing the new cape.
I love London, the kids painted in neon going to SE ONE for a rave didn't even bat an eye as I took the tube home. Though the Elephant and Castle bag ladies didn't know what hit them.

Sunday, 22 March 2009

The McDonalds of Gay Clubbing

It's Tuesday night, it's midnight. You want to go out, have a drink, maybe dance a bit, hopefully pull someone but we'll see where the night takes you. Only one problem, this is London, meaning only one place is open late on a Tuesday: G A Y Late. The worst gay club in London.
I don't know if it is the music, or the fact that the sink is operated by your feet, or the crowd, or maybe it is that horrible smell as if someone cracked rotten eggs in the corner to mask where they took a piss. In either case it is not a pleasant experience.
I don't know what has happened to me, maybe going there one too many times with Alex and being sexy and aloof has caused me to instantly feel superior anytime I set foot in the place. So superior in fact that I have vowed never to enter the place again (one week in I am going strong, yet avoiding GAY Late is like trying to swear off masturbation or eating loads of food when you are drunk and/or high, try as you might it is unavoidable.)
GAY late is the McDonalds of the gay clubbing universe, it's open late, it possesses this industrial clubbing service. You are herded through the queue, searched, chucked in throwing your flyers at the bouncers because I would die before I would actually pay to get in. Of course everybody looks the same: god awful. Short, slightly tubby, and badly dressed, giving London as a city of beautiful people a bad rep. It is quite understandable why feelings of superiority crop up as you sip your cheap drink served in a plastic cup, that of course you can throw on the floor when you are done, wild west style. It matters little because some custodial staff will come along with a mop every half hour to clear the floor while you stand on it, excuse me, couldn't this wait until the patrons have left. Of course said floor is sticky and covered in debris and could easily be the origion of said smell. So don't wear anything too fancy in the footwear department as you will be tromping through what amounts to a farm yard.
Continuing in the industrial vein, we have those lovely television screens that project your text messages, these while great for a practical joke, really just serve to show the low point of human intercourse in the digital age. No longer are you actually required to verbally chat up the cute guy across the bar, you can simply broadcast your feelings and hope he catches on, along with fifty others. Fun. Not that there is ever anyone cute in the place or that you would want to sexually pursue them, the mere thought of even touching someone in such an environ (with that smell pver the din of S Club 7 or Britney Spears) makes me mildly ill.

Wednesday, 11 March 2009

Madame JoJo's

" Is it a sequined legging kind of party?" 
I texted a friend who was already there.
"No" he replied, "mostly straight."
OK so I could not squeeze into my lovely new little shiny darlings but instead decided to play the indie card, big fake glasses, no makeup, effortlessly windswept hair, big tee shirt, with waist coat and long necklace, tight,cropped skinny jeans, and pointy shoes. This effect while in America is considered definitely, beyond a shadow of a doubt: gay, is straight in Britain. Though said skinny jeans were leopard print... Just let me tell you this, straight boys of Britain, if you want the birds coming at you like bees to honey, repeat above outfit. I was beating the gorgeous little well dressed sixth formers off all night. Until of course the gay mafia arrived then things became very apparent as to where my loyalties lie.
I do say Soho is dead but there are pockets that can still be pillaged for a good time out, they are not Trailer Trash by any stretch of the imagination but sufficient. Although charging seven pounds on the door is an extravagance I could do without, thank you very much, (not that I paid, the glasses got me in, though you may have to). The venue reminds me of the fate of that nineteen twenties Chinoiserie drawing room your parents left you in charge of for the weekend they went to Morocco and discretely invited a "few" friends over from school via public Facebook event.
This effect could very well be the result of the incredibly student population present. But at least it is a somewhat higher tier of young person than one gets at such hotspots as Moonlighting with the infamous animal print carpet and eighty pence drinks. White Noise at JoJo's attracts the hotter, better dressed, with better taste crowd. And also unlike Moonlighting with it's unmixed commercial indie music policy JoJo's wisely puts an actual DJ in charge, the resulting sound is a liberating electro laced indie thrash of emaciated limbs you will not soon forget. Or you may if you take advantage of the delectable budget drink menu, two quid for a vodka and soda or Stella. Absolutely smashed for a tenner anyone? Well actually no, we are British students, make it thirty.

Saturday, 7 March 2009

Ghetto, how the mighty have fallen

There was a time when getting into Ghetto on a Saturday night was mission impossible. The queue would fill Falconberg Court. In those days it was another Circus, everyone was painted, padded in resurrected eighties band jackets covered in embellishments, roving for drugs, and in general fabulous. It was a logical conclusion that Ghetto would move to the East End where this sort of crowd lived, everyone knows Soho is dead.
So why is the new Ghetto the G-A-Y late for the anti G-A-Y late and not a bright new star in Old Street?
First of all despite their claims of being minutes from Old Street tube, the new venue, though architecturally very intriguing is a bloody journey and half, especially in stilettos, or combat boots that are three sizes too small. You feel like you are halfway to Oxford Circus by the time you get there. The buzz of proper Old Street that begins at the roundabout is non existent in this extremity, it's a quiet residential neighbourhood who's only other occupant that stays up past midnight is a kebab shop which I found a more enjoyable portion of the evening than the hour I spent in the Ghetto.
Secondly, the crowd. What has happened??! As my companion remarked, where have these people come from? A valid question. We of course breezed by post Circus that with it's new unGodly closing time of half two chucked us out into the streets of Shoreditch all too soon. My instinct was to go to Trailer Trash, indeed I believe all the fashionista's wearing dresses made out of cards, gold leggings, white fur jackets, and obscene eye and face makeup crawled up there to pop some pills under their Grace Jones-esque hoods with all the other filthy gorgeous bright young things. But the new Ghetto is not stupid for all it's other faults and there was the flyerer at the exit of the Last Days of Decadence. Having not been on a Friday yet, and hearing things were quite good, away we went. Unlike in the days of yore where such an outfit as mine would have been required just to enter Ghetto, now it was as if we were white in the Bronx. The only other remotely interesting/attractive person was a member of the bar staff with a good haircut. The crowd had no sense of style, they were wearing bloody polo shirts (at 4 am in London??).  And, this should never happen, but the lesbians present were much better dressed than the gaiety, nothing against lesbians but this is not the natural order of things. Everybody was average, average in body shape, height, face, clothing it was the blandest crowd I have seen in a long time, much as it pains me to say it even G-A-Y late manages to pack more hotties in, albiet wearing head to toe Topman, pretending to be alternative, but the effect is achieved.
Music wise things were not so dire; upstairs the reasonable number of assembled plain Marys swayed to new wave eighties with some Killers thrown in. Downstairs, in "the club" portion electro was attempted to be played but the place was deserted so the DJ began throwing out club classics to tempt some dancers onto the floor.
Still one dance floor empty and the other badly filled does not bode for an exciting time. So after finishing our drinks, feeling up the various exotic specimens of taxidermy, and stealing some posters from the toilet I was on the verge of falling asleep from the boredom. This is when we decided it was time to abandon ship for that kebab and chips. Satisfaction finally achieved. 

Thursday, 5 March 2009

AB FAB Clubkid Conundrum

Sequins for face. Check. Now all that is needed is surgical adhesive. Hmm I'll ask at Boots. Still the big problem remains what am I going to wear?? It's bloody AB FAB Circus, I am trying to channel Edie via the huge tigerprint jumper from the Berlin Charity shop or possibly the shiny gold jacket from Wow, or maybe worn together, then there is always the garingly bright neon ski jacket, big gold chain. What I need is a LaCroix gaudy, huge cross. Hmm the temptation to commit a fashion crime in the name of old Madamoiselle Monsoon is tempting but I will also be at a rather fabulous party and there is tipping the hat to fashion faux paux and looking amazing and actually committing one and looking like shit, a concept, are two very different things. 
Then there is always the Gareth Pugh ripped leggings over gold, with my new gloves, would look ace. The red military waist coat, all gold trim and buttons but I wore that out in November. Ah so many clothes and nothing to wear, I am feeling animal print though, and bright gold, this is what we need to base it on. Headband? Definitely. Excessive facemakeup? Duh. Damn should have got that leather jacket at Primark. Well there is always our trip to TK Max tomorrow to hope to dredge something up from.
I have way too many clothes but as I see it, I am nineteen, I am skinny, I am in London, I am not terribly poor (yet). Can you think of a better time to have too many clothes??