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.
Marcel
x

Sunday, 29 March 2009

Grace


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.
Marcel
x
P.S. Darlings. Check this out for more Grace pics: http://images.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://www.urbanimage.tv/watermarked/gracej10_ab_n.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.urbanimage.tv/docs/rockandpopgracejones.htm&usg=__5le684vKvLMtx_sy_sARI92L5yo=&h=300&w=432&sz=26&hl=en&start=29&um=1&tbnid=zAASfS8FsIRA_M:&tbnh=88&tbnw=126&prev=/images%3Fq%3DGrace%2BJones%26ndsp%3D20%26hl%3Den%26client%3Dsafari%26rls%3Den-us%26sa%3DN%26start%3D20%26um%3D1x

Friday, 27 March 2009

I'm famous

http://www.thestylescout.co.uk/

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.
Marcel
x

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."
Boo.
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??