Glitterbird by Georgina Langford

Blood, Sweat and Ink

2012-02-07T23:30:00.003Z

Recently, Brighton was invaded with a lot of tattooed people. More than usual, anyway. The reason? The annual Brighton Tattoo Convention had arrived. Organised by Woody, one of the best known tattooists in town, this convention brings together some of the most exciting tattoo artists in the country.

I made a last minute decision to go along on the Sunday - it was definitely one of the weirdest ways I've ever spent an afternoon. For a start, it was a rare occasion where I felt self conscious about my lack of tattoos. My small collection was nothing in comparison to the full-body coverings on show. There was one dude who was completely, totally covered, and there was a lot of him to cover, ifyaknowwhatimean.

It was fascinating and inspiring to see the tattooists at work; there were so many different styles in action. As well as witnessing new tattoos being inked, it's safe to say that there were some fine people watching candidates in attendance, all with different levels of body modification.

Sadly, my bank balance was somewhat shameful at the time, which meant I had to leave without any permanent souvenirs (next year will be a different story, let me tell you that for nothin'). The endless inspiration was worth the entry fee alone, because I discovered not only new artists but also the coolest, creepiest, interior design company you have ever seen.

Hold up.

Interior design at a tattoo convention? For sure...because it was this kind of interior design:

Those are real bones, by the way. because no home is complete without a genuwine Jack Skellington in a box. Of course, these incredible artifacts are the work of EatonNott, a design studio that is the brainchild of artists Jess Eaton and Jon Nott. Jess is responsible for Roadkill Couture, which does exactly what it says on the tin. They all things weird and wonderful - oddities, antiques, specimens, their own artwork, and jewellery made of actual bird skulls. What more could you want from a shop? I'll be making a trip to 26 Preston Road in Brighton very soon.

I digress from tattoos. Not at the convention, although I'd watch this space for next year, was an art school friend of mine called Jean Le Roux. You know when you all leave university, you wonder who is going to go on and achieve great things? Well, I have high hopes for Jean. His illustrations are out of this world...

Pretty sure that something this guy can draw will be permanently etched on me in the near future, once he has done his apprenticeship at London's Black Garden Tattoo. One to watch...

Some visual inspiration to brighten up the dullest of dull days.

Brighton Tattoo Convention

EatonNott

Jean Le Roux

PS: In case you hadn't noticed, I've taken over another tiny corner of the Interwebs. For those who love music, I have launched

****OUR NEW NOISE***

a dedicated music blog-type thing.

You'll still find everything else on here, but do me a flavour and have a read.

kthankxbye

Why We Are All Lana Del Rey(s)

2012-01-27T01:25:00.000Z

Come and take a walk on the wild side
Let me kiss you hard in the pouring rain
You like your girls insane
Choose your last words
This is the last time
Cause you and I, we were born to die

I know, everybody is talking about her, writing about her, analysing so much as her every sneeze. But I felt left out, okay?!

So this is what this little blog is adding to the cacophony of Lana discussion (the Tower Of Rey-bel, if you will): we are all Lana Del Rey. Lana Del Rey is all of us.

Why? Because it doesn't matter who, what, when and why Lizzy Grant transformed into Lana Del Rey. She's a 25 year old girl/woman - I can feel a Britney lyric coming on there - who has found who she wants to be. I think I can state with some degree of authority, as someone who is also 25, that it is a weird age. You finally feel as though you are becoming the person you are meant to be, but you still have a lot to learn and mess things up on a regular basis. Very regular.

Discussions with a friend earlier tonight involved anecdote swapping about our late teens and early twenties. Otherwise known as 'The Dark Times'. Forgetting even the personal, academic and car-related screw-ups from that time, I can look back (read: squint through shaded eyes) at my outfit choices from just four years ago and want to DIE. Preferably QUICKLY, and where no-one will ever see my embarassed face again. I'll be honest, in 2005, I had shit hair. I'm not saying it's fantasticarama now, but back then, it was really shit. I went to three different universities and at each one, attempted to peel off the shabby layers of teenage chrysalis to unveal the sparkling, dazzling personality I hoped might lay beneath my dodgy jeans and heavy handed eyeliner applications - all to no avail. This stuff takes time.

*By the by, for anyone over the age of 25, I know this isn't exactly groundbreaking stuff. Bear with me, I have a point and will make it eventually. I promise.*

My point is (see, I told you) that sure, Lana/Lizzy looks pretty dreadful in those old YouTube videos, singing on stage in a godawful baggy green t-shirt and faded jeans, her hair peroxide yellow, her lips decidedly un-bee-stunged. Her songs are nice, her voice an even quieter version of its current babygirl whisper. But if you look n' listen closely, you can see the beginnings of Lana. The foundations of a star.

And so, a few years later, she discovered hair dye and rollers and lipstick and/or a plastic surgeon. She got a good stylist. She worked with the best producers around right now. TA DA! She looks and sounds a whole lot better than she did before. Do you look exactly the same as you did three years ago (especially if you are 25 now)? If you do, then you might want to get a haircut. No offence. It's essentially all just about growing up.

The debate rages as to whether Lana's evolution is all just one big stage-managed piece of cynical marketing. Now, as much as I hate being sneakily sold anything, my answer to that is this: if she was completely void of talent, a hollow shell made beautiful by a money-hungry record label boss, then how would she get so many people to fall in love with her? There are twenty two million views and counting on Video Games. If that's not fans, then that's a lot of people who are morbidly curious.

Her live performances are shaky, nervous, awkward - and yet we are all fascinated by her. There is a difference between someone who is genuinely vomit-inducing awful on stage (anyone remember a pregnant Katie Price in a pink PVC catsuit, attempting to sing a Eurovision entry? Yeah, I had repressed that one too) and someone who is not conventionally perfect, who maybe makes mistakes, yet still has something special about them.

I reckon Lana is special. I like everything about her. Maybe she is just a young woman, still discovering who she is. Or maybe she is a figment of a marketeer's imagination. If she is a made-up character, then I like that made-up character. Either way, she has hit on something genius, which has made her the fastest rising star on the planet.

That other bird who we all used to talk about, Gaga whatsherface, once said that we were all Born This Way. That's kind of true, but even she was Stefani Germanotta not so long ago.

#nowplaying Lana Del Rey - Born To Die (obviously)

All images & video: Lana Del Rey, Interscope

2012: The Year Good Stuff Happens To Pretty Neat People

2012-01-20T00:10:00.000Z

So this is what 2012 looks like...weird.

Many posts have appeared then vanished from my brain over the past few weeks but seriously, who needed yet another 2011 round up? We had enough 'best of' lists to last us 'til next Christmas and anyway, Charlie Brooker covered off anything you needed to know about 2011 in his Screenwipe. He's such a clever chap, that Brooker. Funny, too. Let's just not mention farm animals.

My current plan of attack for 2012 is childishly simple. No looking back. Je ne regrette rien, or whatever that Piaf bird sung about (incidentally, if you happen not to have seen La Vie En Rose, rectify that immediately.)

Last year saw yet another surreal chain of events occur on a global scale, but also in the life of YT, so with the view that things will probably get a bit 'round the twist' again, I am focusing on the good stuff that will definitely happen.

First up, the Refused and At The Drive In reformation. Oh hi, two of my favourite bands who I never thought I'd see play live. Who gives a flying flip that they are being paid big $ to play again, as Daniel P Carter pointed out, at some point professional musicians do need to earn some actual cash.

New Noise by Refused changed this little girl's life; when I first heard that song it was like someone lit a touchpaper in my brain. There was a punk club night that went by the same name in a tiny bar in Kingston when I was a student - none of my friends liked rock music, so I'd get in my car and drive there alone, just to listen to the songs. This plan worked really well until someone recognised me from my Myspace profile picture. Now THOSE were the days of social media glory, friends. (Truth be told I was mortified and left pretty sharpish.)

Obviously, being a resident of Brighton and not Los Angeles, earning a crust as a young journalist, circumstances have yet again prevented me from obtaining a Coachella ticket, so as yet I will just have to imagine their live sets. And hope, pray, beg that they come to the grotty old UK and play Reading. What a dream... Because yet again, I know come bank holiday weekend in August I'll be wearing an anorak in a muddy field, drunk at 2pm in the afternoon, living the high life at Reading Festival. Oh, the glamour! There's also Sleigh Bells and Florence gigs to look forward to, plus many more in between. Who could forget two highly anticipated and threatening-sounding albums that are due for release in the imminent future? Born to Lose and Reign of Terror, welcome to my iTunes.

It's an exciting time for music, if you ignore most of the dross nominated at the Brits (sorry, Ed Sheeran? I still don't get it.) Away from major labels, in both suburban towns and big cities, there is the feeling of desperation in the air, which in turn leads to frustration, which eventually leads to anger and a whole lot of people making angry, noisy music.

Bring that on, thank you please. Dubstep just isn't going to cut it in the current social and economic climate.

In other forms of culture, I'll be counting the minutes until This is England '90, the final part of Shane Meadows story about the kids in Nottingham. Vicky McClure and Joseph Gilgun are hands-down two of the most exciting young actors in the UK today and as far as I am concerned, they can do no wrong and lots of right.

When I'm not reading, watching or listening to something, I'll mostly be following the progress of all the incredible people I was lucky enough to meet last year. And old friends, still striving to achieve their dreams, or just to make life better. Mainly girls, each talented in different ways, working like mad to make things happen. Things will indeed happen this year, they have to.

#nowplaying Brand New, Sowing Season

PS Talented people alert:

Pamflet

Le Blow

Ella Dror and friends

Katy Brown

Traams

Curxes

Miles Langford @ Elite

And many more who haven't got a somewhere I can link to just yet.

Anti-Punk Police Need To Step Off

2011-12-16T13:39:00.000Z

We are all well aware that there are unspeakable atrocities happening all round the world, every day. Violations of human rights, dictatorships, the continued existence of Simon Cowell, etc etc. I am continually horrified by the forced marriages in Asia, anti-homosexuality laws in some parts of Africa and all the other injustices that Amnesty International are doing their best to raise awareness of.

However, I will admit that one such story yesterday, while it's not as earth-shatteringly horrible as other examples of prejudice, it particularly made my blood boil.

*cue the beginning of a Gbird rant. Sorry.*

Over in Aceh, Indonesia, 65 punk rock fans were arrested by armed police at a show. Purely for being punks. These kids were dragged off, had their hair completely shaved, piercings removed and any 'offensive' jewellery removed. They were then thrown into a pool for 'spiritual cleansing' and made to complete a ten day military discipline program plus religious classes.

I'm just going to pause for a second to hold back the torrent of rage that is about to flow forth.

Apparently, this province of Indonesia is governed by stringent Muslim law, which was all the justification the police needed to arrest these people.

RIGHT. This is one of the reasons I no longer have any kind of religious belief. As far as I'm concerned, religion is fine and dandy for those who want spiritual guidance, something to believe in which makes them feel they are not alone, something which gives them rules in order to structure their lives by. What is clearly not fine is when people impose their beliefs on others, or even use it as a tool to repress others. In this case, so-called religious law is being used as an excuse for abuse. Abuse of the simple human right to wear whatever the hell you like, to listen to music that inspires you. If these punks were not harming anyone, were not in any way being abusive to others, then there is no justification for the way they are treated in Indonesia.

These people are not criminals. I don't care what Muslim law says. If someone is a Muslim and they chose not to listen to punk rock, then that is fine by me. They simply CANNOT then tell others that they are not allowed to be punks. We live in an officially Christian country, but the UK doesn't force every non-Christian to abide by the 10 commandments. Too often, throughout history, religion has been the cause of some of the worst atrocities against our fellow human. I'm not even going to start listing every war that was sparked by religious tension. Mainly because that would cover the majority of wars which have ever happened.

This subject is obviously extremely contentious, so I'll be clear: Islam, Judaism, Christianity, Buddhism - I have no issue with religion as such. But faith aside, I strongly believe that no-one has the right to suppress other people's self expression (unless that expression is physically/mentally harmful to others - I'm not saying being a Nazi is in any way justifiable).

Punk rock is a subject close to my heart, as is the issue of being able to demonstrate your personality and passions via your appearance. The Indonesian police need to leave these tattooed kids well alone. Their mohawks and nose-rings are part of who they are, and removing them is a violation of their rights as a human. It's also fucking pointless - if they really are punks, do these police genuinely believe that a buzzcut and a bath is going to cleanse their blackened souls? Of course it won't. They'll endure the program through gritted teeth, go home after the 10 days, and listen to their music again. You can force someone to change how they look, but you can't alter what's inside.

#nowplaying Refused: New Noise

GL

Reign of Terror:: A Christmas Treat from Slay F**cking Bells

2011-12-02T20:14:00.000Z

I've been absent from the Internets because, quite frankly, I was pretty sure the end of the world was nigh with all the utter crap going on in UK politics and abroad. When you are watching a government shut down one of the most important series of protests from the last 30 years, it makes you fairly immune to seeing the beauty in other things. My inspiration was disabled, so to speak.

It was going to take something pretty frickin' loud to snap me out of it.

And then, along came Reign of Terror.

Hell yeah, Sleigh Bells are back! It's incredulous that it has taken me this long to express my undying, unwavering, unbridled passion for this band. Alexis Krauss pretty much changed my life the first time I saw her jump into the crowd at Audio - after she and bandmate Derek Miller had exploded our ear drums, that is. I'm going to make a bold assertion now: Sleigh Bells are one of the greatest bands of my lifetime. It's probably a naïve belief, but they seem like one of the only real bands we've got. With none of the BS that surrounds other new acts (they have tweeted the grand total of once, which was today, to post up the website of the new album. No "Hi, x-amount of thousand tweeps! How you doin' today?" nonsense. Just the url. THAT'S IT.)

So, Treats pretty much ruled the end of 2009 and early 2010. The combination of Derek's hardcore guitars and Alexis' sweet warblings are simply addictive - not to mention riffs that threaten to break your speakers. My love for them was so strong that I think I had to physically stop myself from playing that album on repeat for the rest of my life; gotta give some of my other favourite bands at look in, at least. Also, Treats is something that should be saved for just that, a treat. A sweet n'sour audio brain freeze that leaves you feeling all tingly inside. But one that could genuinely damage your hearing if that is all you listen to *ahem*. I had to go cold turkey and block them out of my brain for a bit - short of when I looked like a crazy lady at Reading as I shouted to a complete stranger "I love your t-shirt!!" with regards to his "Slay Fucking Bells" attire, I haven't thought about my American dreamteam in a little while.

So today, I sleepily stumble onto my F.AM train to London, looking like a homeless because I have got the dreaded winter lurg and was wearing no makeup in protest against the germs that had invaded my face (attractEEve), I peel open my eyes and look at Twitter. And there it is, the greatest news I have heard all week, from @Spin magazine: Sleigh Bells release trailer for new album Reign of Terror.

Reign of Terror? REIGN OF TERROR? Why has this insanely great title never been used for a record before? (Apologies, 'Embrace Distruction', I know you released an LP called that in 2009 but I'm not counting you) Even abbreviated it's good. Reign of Terror = R.O.T. Alexis and Derek, you is the coolest. And let's talk about the video. On it's own, exclusive website, the video plays the usual Sleigh Bells trick of acting all quiet for a second then BAM! Oh, we're gonna hit you in the face with some really, really loud guitar which is going to make you jump out of your skin at work. And here's Alexis, looking like the Bond villain babe from Hell. In all seriousness, just watching it makes my heart beat faster. If I'm going to lose another year of my life to Sleigh Bells, 2012 cannot come quick enough.

WATCH IT HERE:

Reign of Terror.tv

Youth Gone Wild: Why We Need Student Protests

2011-11-14T23:57:00.000Z

This has been one of the hardest posts I have ever had to write. My head is feels like it is about to explode with the pressure of trying to get the multitude of thoughts into coherent, logical order. Just as I was about to admit defeat, I saw this (above) on my walk home from work and realised that this wasn't something I could give up on. As much as I would like to catch up with Lady Gaga and One Direction and maybe even a bit of Kitty 'cringface' Brucknell from last night's X Factor, there are more pressing concerns at hand.

"Police have been authorised to use rubber bullets."

It's not often that the first sentence you read on a Monday morning resonates with such intensity that it clangs around in your brain for the next seven days, but that one did. The amount of emotions that get stirred up by such a provocative statement is hard to articulate, but the primary feeling, aside from anger and shock, is disbelief. How did it come to this? (Mike Skinner moment of the day, check.) In all seriousness, it is incomprehensible that the police force think it is OK to plan the same defence strategy against a peaceful student protest as they would a potential re-run of the August riots (100 days ago today, not a night any of us will forget any time soon).

It is obvious to all concerned that the issuing of that statement was a simple preemptive ploy to dissuade potential protesters from leaving their massively overpriced and under-maintained student accommodation last Wednesday, and by the looks of things, it may have worked. Not that it would have made much difference if a couple of extra thousand undergraduates had showed up; it appeared that every police officer within a five mile radius of the City of London was on duty to ensure last week's protest was about as riotous as a kid's birthday party.

'High vis is the only thing to be seen in, don'tcha know.'

Police or no police, I digress. My point is this: ever since last year's student protest, the public reaction has been the same. "What does it matter? What difference will it make?" and, even more infuriatingly, "They don't even understand what they are fighting for, they have got it all wrong."

I'm not saying that I have got everything right. I know I will most certainly have got things wrong. As someone who has only been able to vote in the last two elections and who has grown up amongst peers for whom politics passed us by, it has been a short, sharp learning curve with a long way left to go until we do know exactly what we are talking about (which seems to be the same for most of this country's politicians *ahem* Nick Clegg *ahem*)

But I know enough to say that I for one am in full support of last week's anti cuts and anti privatisation demo, and hope that they continue to happen, on a more regular basis. With action scheduled for the 23rd and 30th of this month, it seems protest is becoming a part of normal London life, and bring it the hell on. Occupy LSX too, for that matter. I die a little bit inside every time I read another patronising article referring to the 'crusties' and 'layabouts' who have set up camp outside St Pauls; there has even been talk of disciplinary measures against a policeman who drunkenly fell asleep in one of the donated tents after a boozing session (he was celebrating passing a firearms training unit: rest peacefully, London dwellers, these are the folks that have your safety in hand).

Occupy LSX and it's international counterparts are the most exciting, innovative and encouraging things to have happened to the political landscape since Wikileaks, and the work these camps are doing is going to change our future. The protesting students, the occupiers; they are doing the one thing that is essential to saving our country from being ground into the dirt: they are showing everyone that there is a different way. The occupiers are proving that we don't have to sit around and wait for the powers that be to dictate how we will be allowed to live our lives, and the students are showing that they won't stand by and see their futures suppressed by debt and a void of prospects.

To all those who harp on about students missing the bigger picture that although fees are high, the loans won't have to be paid back until you are earning over a certain amount: have you looked at the job market recently? It now appears that graduates are being discriminated against for being over qualified, and so many of them are finding themselves in a worse position once finishing their degree than their friends who didn't go to university. Even if the loans don't impact directly on graduate's immediate finances, who wants to go into their independent adult life with the shadow of an average £24,000 weighing over them? I fully agree that not every single person should go to university, we should be offering 18 year olds various options, but those who do want to go shouldn't be weighed down with that level of debt. If other countries can offer all stages of HE for nothing then why can't we?

Having just watched the first half of Scorsese's George Harrison documentary, in which the 'quiet Beatle' cheerfully goes off to India to expand his mind and understand the crazy world he lived in, I believe more than ever that the minute we just accept our lot, we are done for. We have to keep striving. Education and self improvement will surely make the country better as a whole. Which is why students need to keep fighting, and non-students also need to support the cause. Even if Cameron and Clegg look the other way while people march through the streets of London, it shows that we haven't given up. We won't be quiet, we won't accept the way things are, and we won't let the future of this generation be taken away from us.

Images: graffiti from Brighton and Brick Lane, photos from Getty and friends

Donnie Darko and Dead Lady Gaga: Happy Halloween

2011-10-31T12:48:00.000Z

Zombie walking for Beach of the Dead Brighton 2011

For some reason, around this time of year I get an undeniable urge to scare my friends/family/small children by roaming the streets in a horrific costume. Maybe it's payback for all the times I was scared out of my wits as a kid (I just don't like masks, okay?!) or maybe I've just got a charred black evil heart. More likely, it's because I just frickin' love Halloween. Any sort of festival that involves dressing up, eating lots of sour sweets and buying a whole load of pointless plastic crap (glittery spiders, fake cobwebs, cauldrons; you name it, I've bought it from Poundland) and I'm all over that like a Contagion style rash. I'm not sure whether rashes are involved in that new Maaatt Daaamon movie, but all I do know that it looks like the most extensive advert for antibacterial hand gel EVER. Hello, subversive marketing o'clock. I digress.

My obsession with everything orange, black and pumpkin-shaped shows no sign of abating any time soon. It plays second fiddle only to my penchant for Christmas. Xmas. The single greatest event of the entire year. Tinsel countdown has begun - 55 days to go, fellow elves.

Before we descend into snow-covered mania, back to Fright Night. Unfortunately, IMHO good old Great Britain doesn't give All Hallow's Eve the full commitment it deserves. The streets are patrolled by only a handful of teenagers, smashed on White Lightening and wearing either a Scream mask and a hoodie or girls in what is an even sluttier version of their normal underwear. Yeah, thanks Ann Summers for making it normal for girls to go out looking like the queens of trampville in basques, suspenders and stockings on Halloween. Just so we are clear: THOSE ARE NOT CLOTHES. They are also not particularly scary, which, again IMHO, is kinda the point of Halloween costumes, no? I say make like La Lohan in Mean Girls (any excuse to shoehorn in a reference to the best teen movie ever) and rock up in a truly frightening outfit, featuring fake blood, false teeth and something you found in the back of a charity shop. The idea is for your friends to not want to be in the same room as you. So, great for earning some zombie-points, bad for your social life.

While we are on the subject of movie-films, it has to be said that the Americans certainly do it better when it comes to Halloween. One day, I hope to celebrate it over there, in all it's mental, tacky glory, but until then I will just have to play the party scene from Donnie Darko on a loop, in my head. Ah, Donnie. Never have I known a skeleton onesie to be so alluring.

Not all Halloween films are suitably magical, however. I made the foolish error of purchasing this cinematic masterpiece from Poundland:

Yeah, we lasted 10 minutes before we had to turn it off. Sadly, it was the absolutely frightening lack of acting ability rather than the comedy serial killer that was scaring us. Seriously, who kills people wearing yellow Marigolds?! It's got George Clooney in too. He gets bumped off in the first five minutes, in case you are wondering. Sorry to spoil it, but I'm practically doing a public service: do NOT, under any circumstances, watch this movie.

The theme for my personal shindig this year was dead rockstars - yeah, I'm a walking cliche, what of it? - so I'll leave you with a snapshot of Halloween, Brighton-style. That was Saturday - the devil only knows what I'll get up to tonight. I'll either be painting the town black, or sitting at home in raptures listening to Flo's new album, eating leftover pumpkin pie. Either way, I'm just an ordinary ghoul.

Happy halloweening.

I Don't Carry A Gun. I Drive

2011-10-04T22:16:00.001+01:00

Let's talk about Drive. Or maybe that should be, let's talk about Drive A Bit More, because quite frankly, this movie has dominated conversation at work and home the past week. Anyone I know who has seen it just cannot get enough - and I'm not just talking about the Gosling-obsessed girls, because every boy I know is also in the grip of Drive-mania.

*Insania by Peter Andre just started playing in my head. For the love of God...

Back on track. I imagine this must be what it felt like just after Back to the Future or Top Gun came out in the Eighties; you know when you are witnessing a movie achieve instant cult status. Considering I was 0 years of age when Maverick and Goose first flew down into the dangerzone I can only relate it to when Donnie Darko fever suddenly gripped everyone. That weird movie enchanted and enthralled anyone who saw it, leaving us all in a wormhole daze.

The Drive situation is similar in that it crept up on us with much less hype and kerfuffle than many other Hollywood productions; a few awesome posters including the statutory Eighties pink handwriting script and some enthusiastic reviews - Rolling Stone: "Damn, it's good." - were all it took to pique my curiosity.

Having seen it, I now totally understand why the reviewers were giddy with enthusiasm. Drive is just about the slickest movie that I have ever seen. I'm not going to give away any of the plot, because in case you hadn't noticed, this isn't Metro or the Daily Mail (spoiler alerts don't seem to come into their modus operandi). I read a quote from Ryan Gosling that said he and director Nicolas Winding Refn wanted to make the perfect film: Pretty in Pink with added violence. I think he just about hit the proverbial nail on its head there. A tale of being on the outside, of observing and envying someone else's life, of getting mixed up with the wrong crowd and events spinning out of your control - Drive has it all. And Carey Mulligan. And brilliant lines; "You've got five minutes." "I'll see you in four".

I wasn't even that crazy about Ryan Gosling before seeing this - sure, I've seen the Notebook and I most certainly did not bawl my eyes out while writing my boyfriend a four page letter straight afterwards - but after Drive, even said boyfriend casually admitted all the men in the cinema would probably be gay for Gosling. His character - too cool for names, just called Driver - barely speaks, yet has a magnetic presence. In addition, he wears the best jacket in the history of time.

See: people are already writing about this jacket. There are rumours that Urban Outfitters will be making copies of this jacket. It is already getting out of control. All we can think about is Drive.

drivedrivedrivedrivedrivedrivedrivedrivedrivedriveRyanGosling'sjacketdrivedrivedrivedrive.

Did I mention the incredible, electronic, atmospheric soundtrack? Oh yeah, that's also about the best thing since sliced bread. I have been listening to the first four songs on repeat since I saw the movie 10 days ago, and I'm not even the slightest bit bored. Plus I get to stroll around on my commute pretending I'm in a super stylish movie with Ryan Gosling, which is never a bad thing. That's the beauty of a good soundtrack - but there's a whole other post in that.

I may be no bonafide movie critic, but just take my advice on this one. Go and see Drive. But be warned, it's going to take over your brain.

All images: Drive

Zine Machine: Topshop 214

2011-09-28T21:56:00.003+01:00

The Topshop 214 zine arrived today, and inside this fine and dandy publication you will find the 'In The Know' section, edited by yours truly, along with 'The Sounds of the Season' a few pages in, which is a run-down of the latest, greatest audio offerings with which you should be filling your ears. It's time to can Crystal Castles! Mute Morrissey! X The xx! Here are 8 musak types you need to be listening to right now. At least, so that when one of your friends turns to you in a month's time and says 'you know, I just love Alex Winston, don't you?', you don't have to do a Simon from the Inbetweeners and say 'oh yeah, I just love his music!' when in fact he is indeed a her. See, I'm offering a helpful public service here.

What's more, this lovely magazine will cost you zero pennies, which in this day and age, is always a bonus. There was a flurry of re-tweet action the other day when I observed an informative yet apologetic sign up at my local newsagent, informing shoppers that Monster Munch was regrettably now 25p more expensive. That's a lot of p. Some people just don't have that much extra p to throw around, no matter how much they crave some salty, food-colouring infused pickled onion flavour goodness. Mmm, goodness. But I digress. If, in the next week, you are going to be visiting a Topshop retail building, purchasing something from their Web Site or indeed just window shopping said url, do me a flavour and make sure you pick up a copy.

It seems significant (or at least, relevant to my leetle world, even if it has no bearing on the greater universe) that this is my 200th post, which is marked by the publication of my first words on music in an actual magazine that you can actually hold in your actual hands. I'm sure the NME are frantically trying to get hold of me as we indeed speak, however if that is not the case then I will continue flinging my writing all over the Internet.

If you have a spare five minutes, click over to Le Blow - I'm part of their gang now too.

In the meantime, here's a shockingly amateurish video I made of the magazine, just to whet your appetite. Enjoy!

Penguins, Tattoos and a Man Named Sailor Jerry

2011-09-21T12:43:00.001+01:00

It is a truth universally acknowledged that if JD Sports can lose (reportedly) £700,000 worth of stock during the London riots and Waterstones shops remain untouched, then Houston, we have a problem with the yoof of today. Aside from the obvious propensity towards smashing stuff up and setting it on fire, the biggest problem with kids is that no-one is encouraging them to read. The irony is, if someone had given a book to one of the marauding yobbos who carted off HDTVs, then perhaps they wouldn't have wanted to steal a TV in the first place. Books are an essential element of life (just see my post on the library closures: I get seriously het-up about hardbacks.)

Step away from the TVs! head to your local library! Erm...please?

Thankfully, the smart people at the Evening Standard are doing a Get London Reading campaign, which is a flipping marvellous idea in my humble opinion. However, that is just London - someone, somewhere, needs to come up with a masterplan to get all young people reading more, wherever they live. Before we turn into a nation of morons who can only speak in abbrevs and BBM spk. ARGH IT'S HAPPENING ALREADY.

Step up to the plate, Penguin. No, not my favourite feathered friend, the book publisher. Penguin has been releasing new editions of favourite novels with covers designed by some of the world's greatest tattoo artists. Talk about 'here are a few of my favourite things' forget raindrops on kittens and whiskers on mittens, gimme books and tattoos any day.

Particular favourites are the Valerie Vargas design (she is one of the UK's most popular artists, with a waiting list of about a year) for Notes on a Scandal by Zoe Heller and High Fidelity by Nick Hornby, designed by Russ Abbott. Both are £10 from the Penguin website.

Forget boring old Kindles (which the rioters didn't even think about nicking, even though they are worth the same as some iPods). Kids need to be able to look at books and think that they look cool. And if they have got tattoo designs on the cover, that has got to help.

On that subject, while I was at Bestival (incidentally, read my review here) I spent a lot of time lurking around the Sailor Jerry's area, and not just for the rum-cocktails-in-a-pineapple. Along with a massive Hula girl pin up statue, this area also contained a shanty shack which had a working tattoo parlour and an exhibition/film dedicated to the life of Mr Norman Collins, aka Sailor Jerry. As I am like a moth to a flame when I hear the buzz of a needle, I took refuge from the crowds of drunk people dressed as Freddie Mercury, and watched someone getting tattooed with some classic Sailor Jerry designs. There were also actual velvet cinema seats, where you could watch a movie about the life and times of Sailor Jerry, who is generally considered to be the godfather of old school tattooing. I knew something of his life, but didn't realise what a genius this man actually was. Not only did he revolutionise the art with his incredibly vivid colour flash, but he introduced new inks that had never been used before and blended his experience of traditional Asian tattooing (which was ironically the pastime of the Western aristocracy, who would get souvenir tattoos on their travels) with Western designs and his experience of Navy life.

Sailor Jerry and one of his iconic pin up girls. What a pretty lady.

What really hit home during the video was some of the things artists who had known and worked with Jerry had to say. They could explain how tattooing then was a way of capturing the spirit of life and making a permanent memory of it - sailors would get tattooed at Collins' shop either on their way back from or going to war, so they would be living life to the full in that moment. Being tattooed meant being part of a club of people who were foolish enough to pay for the pleasure of sitting through pain to leave a permanent mark on their skin - but that was a commitment they had made. It was also a way for sailors to carve out a little piece of their own identity when everything else in their life was uniform and regulated.

This is what I think of when people continue to spout uninformed, negative opinions on tattoos (see: Daily Mail comments section underneath a picture of any inked celebrity) A certain writer at the Times recently wrote an article entitled 'Having a tattoo doesn't make you cool', which should have left me feeling me annoyed. However, all I really felt was a little bit sorry for her; I just thought she sounded old-fashioned and a teensy bit ignorant. But unlike her attitude towards people like me, I won't judge her book by its cover. Each to their own, as I'm sure Sailor Jerry would have agreed.

Images: Sky, Penguin, Victor Frankowski, Sailor Jerry

Reading Roundup

2011-08-30T23:15:00.001+01:00

'If you're list-en-ing/Woah-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh/Sing it back/Woah-oh-oh-oh-oh.'

(Yeah, thanks for getting stuck in my head Jimmy Eat World. It's only been three days of Sweetness on repeat...jeez.)

One of the weekend's many rainbows, but this one made an arc over the whole site. Ooh, magical.

This year's Reading festival was soundtracked by some great bands, plus the rustling noise of waterproofs being taken off, then put back on, then taken off, then put back on again. Yes, the weather was playing silly buggers, and yes, I was a little perturbed to discover on the very first day that my waterproof leaked - at the neck seam no less - but I wasn't going to let an iddy bitty drop of rain ~~dampen my spirits~~* interfere with the serious business of band watching.

*Sorry, just for a second there I thought I was writing for the Daily Mail.

This year was a strange one for acts, with a mixture of old-school established rock behemoths and freshly exploded from the womb newbies, and Friendly Fires. (No, credit where credit is due, the sight of their coterie of hula girls shimmying in the rain to 'Hawaiian Air' did actually brighten up the drizzly Sunday.) As usual, my eardrums and limbs have not quite recovered from the battering they received over the past few weekend, and neither have my eyes, from the sight of a million pasty legs and bum cheeks poking out of too-short denim shorts. More like denim knickers, or even denim thongs, some of them were that high cut. Eurgh. Kate Moss and Alexa Chung have a bloody lot to answer for, that's all I'll say on the matter.

And now, in true music magazine style, here is the full Reading breakdown: in the form of a list, naturally.

Most exciting band of the weekend: letlive. Frontman Jason Aalon Butler spilled his guts onstage, exploding like a wildcat as he ricocheted around, jumping into the crowd, smashing into equipment, punching roadies and any band members that crossed his path of self destruction. He was like a ball of angry noise. Mindblowingly good.

Noisiest band - Crystal Castles. I thought my eardrums were about to explode. However, a note to festival organisers: please don't book Crystal Castles as the second to last band on the Sunday night of a festival. Teenagers + camping for four days + total lack of deodorant + having an arms-in-the-air rave-up to 'Baptism' = Gbird almost keeling over, knocked out by a cloud of over hormone-drenched B.O. Yeesh, it was bad.

Best scream - The Bronx frontman Matt Caughthran. That should probably be best roar. The man is a TANK with lungs.

Olly Sykes: good tattoos, pretty good scream-ability too.

Best stage dive - Bring Me The Horizon guitarist Lee Malia set the bar high on Friday afternoon, jumping into the crowd then surfing all the way to the back, before reappearing to 'play' the rest of the song hanging off the smugly named 'Vodafone VIP' viewing tower. Pretty darn impressive. Apparently they tried to recreate this event at Leeds, but he ended up simply disappearing into the crowd. Ah well, everyone knows Leeds is never as good as Reading *oooo, controversial*.

Best outfit - Jared 'leather leggings' Leto. Mr 30 Seconds to Mars, what I wouldn't give to spend an evening gazing into those baby blues of yours, but seriously dude - a skirt/dress/cape combo? What were you thinking? As soon as Jared appeared on stage via a smoke filled rising platform, you kinda knew he was going to be maxxing out his rockstar persona. What with the aviator shades reflecting the sparkling lights, the (probably) Burberry spiked leather jacket and the custom in-ear monitors featuring the 30STM logo, it seems no expense was spared when it came to costuming this particular extravaganza.

Best crowd interaction - Enter Shikari. Cup throwing, crowd surfing and getting the audience to crouch down and sneak about, just before Rou shouted ' You creepy bastards...' These nutters still know how to have a good time.

Best frontperson - Jarvis - who else?

Best banter - Taking Back Sunday. On the main stage: "Guys, look, I estimate that there are at least 20 more people out there than there are on stage, so let's rock the shit out of them with this next song!".

Biggest disappointment - The Strokes. Next time Julian, could you at least pretend that you are remotely bothered about headlining one of the greatest music festivals in the world? Mumbling doesn't really come across that well when you are talking to tens of thousands of people.

Coolest girl - I can't decide, it's too hard. Bethany Cosentino was just about the best thing since sliced bread, while Alison Mosshart is just so much cooler than Jamie Hince it's almost unfair. But I think Alice Glass still holds the crown. Although overall, there were not enough girls on stage in general. Sort it out...

Alice Glass: nice t-shirt

Best show - Muse. Come on, no one had a hope in hell of beating the kings of killer riffs and even bigger pyrotechnics. Forget Bonfire Night this year - Muse have used up the nation's supply of fireworks, sorry. What a night though, a moment to remember forever.

Best encore - My Chemical Romance, duh. Yeah, it was cheese on toast, and yeah, wheeling out Brian May to do We Will Rock You is a somewhat guaranteed crowd pleaser, but when he carried on playing for The Black Parade - which I've never seen them do live before - I was crying my eyes out, like the massive emo that I am. What of it?

Ah, Gerard. My tomato-haired, leather-clad dreamboat. Not to be confused with Gerard Butler, like my pal Ruth did. Verrrry different people.

Most irritating bits - Moan moan moan, oh, there are always bad points about festivals. I won't bore you with gory details of the sanitation facilities ('tis amazing that we pay £175 for the pleasure of nearly vomming every time we go for a wee) or the lack of veggie food (we can't eat falafel every day, y'know?!) The most annoying thing about Reading 2011 was all the STUPID FANCYDRESS. Please, for the love of God, leave your Morph suits, monkey onesies and silly headgear at home next year. Wearing all that crap doesn't a) make you look Crazy with a capital C! or b) make the opposite sex think 'oh, I must have sex with that quirkily dressed character, sharpish!' It just makes you look like a knob.

And finally, on a happier note...

Most romantic moment - when a little plane flew over, bearing the the banner 'Sarah I love you will you marry me'. We are still waiting for confirmation as to whether her answer was in the affirmative, but either way, it made every girl in the field go 'awwww', so well done to you, lover of Sarah.

Reading: it's been emotional yet again, every bit of me hurts, I'm too old to deal with this, but like all unhealthy addictions, I'm pretty sure I'll be relapsing next year. Until then...

Images: top, GL, all others, BBC

Yo, Flo

2011-08-24T14:54:00.000+01:00

Good to have you back. It's been too long, lady.

'What the water gave me' is the first 'taster' song off the new album (this kind of song used to be known as a first single, then the music biz realised that people are more likely to create a buzz around something that seems secret and exclusive. And also to download it in their hoardes, sending it up the 'singles' chart, and to blog about it. *ahem*)

I was so excited when this dropped yesterday that I emitted a sound normally only audible to bats. Florence is a goddess, a legend, and an inspiration to her army of fans, yours truly included. You may remember this moment, a highlight in the chain of embarrassing events that pass for this blogger's life. So I have been basically clawing the furniture in anticipation of new music from Miss Florence Welch.

'What the water gave me' is such a beautiful track that it gives me musical orgasms. Gospel inspired, euphoric and harp-heavy in true Flo-style, it's the perfect way to warm us up for the new album, which is as yet untitled, out on November 7th. Perhaps she'll continue the anatomical theme and call it 'Heart' as a follow up to 'Lungs'? I don't really mind to be honest, just want it on my iPod, stat.

The video shows Florence rocking out in the studio, working hard (while wearing some fetching Gucci togs, thanks to her uber fan, designer Frida Giannini) and also wafting about in her usual white witch attire. She also conducts a choir on the massive build towards the end of the song, and does some lyric writing - basically all the things we know and love her for. If this is just a taste, then I'm hungry for more (sorry. I'll put my bad joke trombone away.)

November 7th 2011. And so the countdown begins...

Doc Martens: The Best Boots, The Best Ad Campaign #FirstandForever

2011-08-18T11:09:00.000+01:00

Last Friday, I fell head over heels in love. My heartbeat was all a-flutter and my eyes misted over like I was a My Little Pony.

The object of my foolish heart's affection? Only Agyness Deyn, part time supermodel, full time barometer of cool. My favourite supermodel was unveiled as the 'face' (and feet, naturally) of the new Doc Martens campaign.

So far, this was an entirely win-win situation. Aggy is ridiculously amazing, and I am a crazy Doc Martens lover.*

*Having misunderstood DMs for years, thinking they were only worn by art teachers and five year olds (purple patent boots with flowers, hello), in 2009 I underwent a spiritual conversion and suddenly 'got' DMs. I fell for their chunky, clumpy, clompy-ness - the fact that when you are wearing them you feel like you can run or fight or dance, depending on what is presently required. Within three years, I've acquired three pairs, and am now looking to add classic cherry 1460s to my collection. I wear my DMs disproportionately more than any of my other shoes, and I have a LOT of shoes. Sometimes I think I'd be happy if they were my only pair of shoes. This is a long term relationship.

Back to Aggy and Doc Martens. What makes this combination so special, so flipping perfect, is the ingenious idea behind the campaign.

I'm not normally a big fan of that word. Nobody says 'advert' anymore, which is essentially all a 'campaign' is - a series of nice, shiny pictures, featuring a supermodel or six, shot by a swanky photographer, with everyone getting paid fees that would pay for a small house.

However, Doc Martens have gone out of their way to make the promo for their new collection not just a fashion campaign, but am interactive, emotional, digital experience, and I'll be the first to say I've been suckered in by it - and I don't even mind. I relish how suckered in I am. I'm actively enjoying it.

Called 'First and Forever', they have set up a micro website as part of their main one, which firstly features the shots of Agyness in full skinhead, oi attire. It's impossible that this wasn't inspired by Lol and co from the greatest tv show of all time, This is England 1986. Aggy has been styled up like Lol, her ashy blonde hair slicked into a boyish quiff, minimal makeup, and she's wearing polos, skinny jeans, donkey jackets and a different pair of DMs in every picture. Her male companion is twin-like, as they smooch and mooch around what looks like an old bingo hall and a carpark. They are a young couple in love.

The idea behind the campaign is that our 'first' moments shape us 'forever', which is something I have always believed in. First kisses, first friendships, first gigs, first heartbreaks are the experiences that affect the rest of our lives. The short film shows Aggy and her boyfriend happy and overcome with love, but also sat in a dingy cafe, having that conversation where no-one really speaks because you know you are breaking up but it's too painful for either of you to actually say that.

Doc Martens are asking people to submit their first and forever memories, whether it's remembering their first pair of DMs or something more personal. They are building up a map of memories from everyone who contributes - plus there's a chance to win a pair of shoes from the new collection. If ever I for one needed motivation, the lure of reliving awkward romantic memories (see: the rest of this blog) and free DMs is good enough for me.

Doc Martens #First and Forever

Best Coast + Drew Barrymore = Music Video Heaven

2011-08-07T22:25:00.001+01:00

I've been AWOL because in all honesty, I wasn't going to follow up a post about one of my idols dying with something trivial. I had to wait until something special came along.

Thankfully, one of my other idols stepped up to the plate, in the form of Drew Barrymore. My love for Drew knows no bounds: her style, attitude and artistic endeavours always impact on my little life in some way. Full disclosure: as a fourteen year old, I even loved Charlie's Angels (there, I've said it.)

Dream combo deluxe.

So you can imagine my hyperactive, bated-breath levels of anticipation when we heard recently that Drew would be directing that old fashion entity, the music video, for er-ma-zing California band Best Coast. This group, fronted by Bethany Cosentino, have had a place in my heart since last year, when I first heard their dreamy, wistful take on Beach Boys-style pop songs (if the Beach boys had just been dumped by their boyfriends).

The video for Best Coast's song 'Our Deal' got unveiled last week, but as is the way in 2011, has already been wrenched away from the interwebs by an over zealous MTV employee, due to a copyright issue or something equally annoying. Good luck trying to find the official version anywhere apart from on the actual teevee. Oh, how I miss teenaged days, prone on the sofa, flicking steadily between the music channels - skipping over Scuzz, naturally.

Luckily a fellow fan resorted to the time honoured trick of videoing the video off the tellybox. Thank you, ILOVEJONAS93 or whatever your real name is. Therefore, I can share a little Best Coast/Drew/Chloe Moretz love. Yeah that's right, little Hit-Girl from Kick Ass grew up a tiny bit, got herself a quiff and a tough chick leather jacket, and went all West Side Story on us...

Chloe Moretz: from Kick Ass to bad ass.

Tyler Posey, a.k.a Teen Wolf, gets his 'Danny' on.

The brief summary: Chloe and Tyler Posey play members of opposing LA gangs; the Day Trotters and the Night Creepers (somehow I feel the Trotters drew the short straw, name wise.) They meet on the stretch of disused reservoir made famous by a car named Grease Lightning - nice touch, Barrymore. In true Romeo and Juliet fashion, Veronica and Lucky fall madly in love, despite having to keep their romance a secret. There's some nice use of Biro-on-hand and graffiti-on-wall communication that makes everyone nostalgic for some good ol' fashioned note passing in class.

Sweet sentiment, awful grammar.

Oh, and one of my favourite Whip It actresses, Shailene Woodley, pops up too. Looking ferocious.

There's also enough retro 50's street gang fashion to fulfil your wildest West Side Story fantasties. The big floppy quiffs on guys and gals, custom leather jackets and frankly agressive levels of eyeliner are like a NYLON-er's style wet dream. That's a good thing, believe me. I'm growing my fringe out faster than you can say 'Kenickie'.

A lovers misunderstanding leads to tragedy. Look at that SNARL!

There's the inevitable rumble in the, er, car park, and of course, this wouldn't be a Romeo and Juliet remake without a suitably 'got something in my eye' ending. As no-one can currently watch the darn thing, I don't think I can be held responsible for ruining the ending. I challenge even the toughest of nuts not to feel even a teensy bit choked up.

Cue tears, and a rush on red tights.

I'm a sucker for a cool hairstyle, a tragic love story, and a beautiful song. Thanks Drew.

ps. Rumour has it there's a 10 minute version due to be released next week. Who said the music video was dead?

NB: All images borrowed from Best Coast's 'Our Deal' video, directed by Drew Barrymore for MTV's Supervideos. If you don't hear from me in a few days, it's because MTV's copyright Daleks have exterminated me for frivolously flagrant infringement.

We Only Said Goodbye With Words...

2011-07-23T19:47:00.001+01:00

Amy.

We knew there was a ominously likely chance this would happen, but there was no need for you to live out a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Thanks for the inspiration; the emotion, the individuality, the crazy, painful, wonderful music.

You were my icon, and I hoped one day to be able to meet you and write about the real Amy. Now that chance has gone, but I will always remember the impression you made on my life. Yes, you were a flawed, messed-up creature - imperfect in lots of ways. But you were a rare breed of person who did not try to hide all that you were; you were real, and true, and unafraid of baring your soul for all to see. I'm pissed off because there are only a few people prepared to just be themselves like you did. Your words, your style, your attitude - there is just no comparison. Even your hair was inimitable, for god's sake. You captured what heartbreak sounds like. All the pathetic, pointless celebrities...and then someone like you came along. I'll never forget you.

Back to Black on the record player. I hope your troubled heart is somewhere peaceful now.

(A slightly heartbroken) GL

Fashion Frivolities and Supermodel Siblings

2011-07-15T12:33:00.001+01:00

You know those family newsletters that some people create and send out to the friends they are too busy to talk to? I think it's mainly an American thing, because the different time zones might make it trickier to tell Janice in Boston what little Jimmy has been up to, if you now live in L.A. Even though, here in Engerland, family portrait Christmas cards alone are the subject of severe mockery, the concept of not banging on about your personal/family's/pet's latest news died a long time ago, killed off by Mr F.Book.

In that spirit, consider this post the Langford family newsletter - which is necessary because something very weird has happened recently, throwing my little brother back into my orbit.

Firstly, however, the news in brief from two special fashwan events I attended recently (which, fear not, resulted in typical Gbird calamities, in the style of the endame bean incident).

Party #1 House of Organza launch at Red Bull Studios.

Kim Howells (with the cherries)

This do was one of the most surreal, inspiring and memorable fashion nights out I've ever had. The House of Organza is an art/fashion/design collective headed up by stylist Kim Howells, who is a beautiful, generally awesome kinda gal. She also lives with my favourite milliner of all time, Piers Atkinson, which accounted for the brilliant midnight blue cherries that were perched atop her flowing red hair - the only non-blue part of her outfit. As host of the event, she had gone to town with the blue-theme dress code, unlike yours truly, who'd missed the memo and turned up in orange. Yeah. I'm sure nobody noticed.

The purpose of the event was to launch the latest works produced by members of the collective, who each season are given a canvas, a theme and inspirational material. This time, the whole project was inspired by artist Mr Roy, whose skin is covered with swirling tattoos- they reminded Kim of light on petrol, which in turn led to this seasons theme of Yves Klein blue. The collective members interpreted Mr Roy's spoken word and the colour theme in their own unique way; my particular favourite was Craig Lawrence's pair of signature metallic knitted gauntlets, with the blue painted canvas woven through the stitches. Once a bevy of drag queens arrived to model some of the other creations, I started to feel massively under-dressed, and having smoothly managed to fall off the swing (seen in the photo of Kim) I made a swift exit, my head spinning with the sheer volume of creativity I had just witnessed. The blue coloured cocktails had nothing to do with it.

(Photos by Kim Jacobsen)

Party #2: Acne pre-collection soiree at Browns boutique.

You might have noticed by now that I'm a preeeety big fan of the brand Acne (I enjoy the acronym: Ability to Create Novel Expression). Their clothes are completely in tune with the zeitgeist. Whether it's the amazing grunge knits, leather trousers, weirdly cut dresses that look perfect on, they can make just about anything look good. Plus, their parties are the best in London. Wednesday night saw me shuffle up to South Molton Street (a place so elegant, I constantly feel like my headmistress is going to pop up and tell me off for looking so scruffy). For one night only, I had been loaned this wonderful bright orange angora cardigan from the pre-collection, and in honour of the occasion, was snapped by Vogue photog Candice Lake. I call this look 'Tangerine Dream':

Photos by Candice Lake

Anyway, this bash was a perfectly civilised affair: we drank magical champagne served by waiters who wore turbans and tuxedo trousers cropped into v short shorts, listened to jazz that would have sent Howard Moon into musical ecstasies, and ogled the Acne pre collection. What can I say? As usual, they have produced a ridiculously covetable selection of marbled knits, stripey skirts, a great digital print mini and a fantastic monochrome zig zag print dress. I'm in love with it all.

Acne pre-collection

If you are still with me at this point, I can now unveil my family related bit of fashion news. It seems the Langfords are keeping the business of style in-house: my annoying little brother has just been signed to Elite. Yep, you have no idea how surreal it is as an older sister to imagine her younger bro, who I used to fight with in the back of the car/over the remote as an international male model, but somehow, this is the case. Here are his latest shots:

(Shot by Gryff Rhys)

i:D 'Kick Up's' shoot - on the left

It's Not The End Of The (News of the) World...

2011-07-13T00:00:00.000+01:00

...but it might just be the start of a new one. For journalists, anyway.

So. It's come to this. I've been in blog limbo for the past few weeks, as the industry I work in basically came crashing down around me. Having just started a new job at the world's oldest publishing company, it has been more than a little disconcerting to witness the utter destruction of another similar firm, in real time. My Twitter addiction (yeah it's bad, but sometimes it's pretty useful) means I am reading constant updates about what has been unearthed from the - apparently - police protected closets of a company that has dominated British journalism for a very long time.

There are too many ins and outs, secrets and lies, to go into what is true and what is not, in one insignificant blog post. By the time this is published, one of the more upstanding UK newspapers will have unleashed a whole new flood of revelations from the now defunct Screws.

To be honest, the whole situation has made me painfully aware of the business I'm in; confirming some of my beliefs, and making me question others. My weirdly naïve 24 year old self still respects truth as the most important principle in writing; without truth, what's the point of being a writer. However, it also unnerves me to see the entire British media (including the newspapers that I do 'believe' in) literally circle like vultures, ripping and screaming at the shreds of one of their rivals' reputations. It's scary - obviously, the truth must be outed, for the sake of morality and public safety, but part of me wishes the other papers wouldn't be quite so pleased about the whole debacle.

Please do not misunderstand - I am very glad that there is one less tabloid to fill the public's head with utter guff every weekend. We would be a better nation if we didn't have newspapers that prided themselves on scoring 'exclusives!' on what the exact sexual position tickled the fancy of various Z-list celebrities as they cheated on their wives with their neighbour's girlfriend's dog's prostitute cousin. Who was underage. We have wasted too much brain space on this nonsense for too long (I for one succumbed to a dangerous Perez Hilton addiction, before I realised I could be reading books, making tea, or just doing anything more worthwhile than reading about the divorce of an American sleb I'd never even heard of. Somehow, as a race of intelligent human beings, we have got to reclaim our minds for our own, and put them to good use.

Ultimately, ding dong, the Wicked Witch is dead (or at least, her newspaper is, even if she is safe in her ivory tower) and it's a time of massive change for the media industry as a whole. The concept of 'in the public interest' has stuck with me ever since I learnt journalistic law, and it's an idea that needs some serious re-evaluation. There are going to be new laws, new procedures, new publications. Let's hope it is for the better - either way, journalism is never going to be the same again.

Be Scene And Not Heard

2011-06-26T12:02:00.000+01:00

*drags soapbox out from under bed*

This is just a little reactionary diatribe for a sunny Sunday morning.

Some of you may have read one of my recent posts on FEAL all about Topshop's 'Psychobilly' collection for AW11. Note the quotation marks there - it is simply the name of the collection, a reference to the psychobilly, rockabilly inspirations behind the clothes. (In fact, when you break down the looks, the garments themselves are more individually inspired by recent catwalk designs - but the way they have been styled is distinctly psychobilly-esque). I have to say, I really like the clothes; they are retro and tough and generally cooler than a lot other high street offerings.

Topshop 'Psychobilly' for AW11

However - and this is a big however - I take this collection for what it is; a mainstream fashion retail company's version of 'alternative' clothing. It may not be the bonafide genuine article, and the people who will wear it may or may not know the ins and outs of the psychobilly scene, but it is a fun trend that will be picked up by the fashion crowd and then discarded again within a matter of months. Such is life in this business.

Now I have a weird perspective on this one - even though I work in fashion, it's safe to say that I'm definitely into more alternative style, music and activities than some of my colleagues. I have a lot of rockabilly running through my veins, definite punk days, and a generally retro approach to fashion. I admire all things contemporary, but I get more inspired by icons gone by.

Bettie Page: Queen of the Pin Ups, icon to the alternative masses

Yours truly in full rockabilly mode...

I'm not saying that as a badge of pride, but because I just appreciate that everyone is different and that no-one has the right to pass judgements on another solely based on their clothing or music taste.

The Meteors: modern psychobilly at its finest.
So when the inevitable slew of comments from disgruntled psychobilly scenesters sprung up on the FEAL post, I wanted to tear my hair out with frustration. 'Oh, Topshop, what do they know about Psychobilly' 'This isn't real' and 'come to a psychobilly gig, see how you fit in' they sneered. All posted anonymously, of course, because their brains are obviously so full of knowledge about what it means to be alternative that they don't have space to learn how to sign in to Google.

Internet trolls and the pissed off psychobilly commenters: very similar hair colours...

They were naturally missing the whole point of the post, and in turn highlighting a huge flaw in their modus operandi; what is the point of being part of a subculture, an alternative lifestyle, which celebrates all that is diverse and unique in this strange country, if you can't appreciate that everyone is different? People who are part of a 'scene' should focus their energies on having a good time with the friends they have decided they fit in with, rather than concentrating on keeping others out. It's really sad, and more than a little playground-ish, when people (of all ages) become elitist and prejudiced towards someone because maybe they don't have the exact right shoes or hair or tattoos.

Bang on The Door - if you didn't have one of these pencil cases at school, you were No-One.

My best friend and I, at the ripe old age of 23 and 24, were discussing the fact that we are so glad those teenage anxieties of desperately trying to be cool are far, far behind us (we are pretty decrepit now). Man, that crap was exhausting. Obsessing over every little detail of life, worrying about whether you'd fit in; it was stressful enough making sure you had the 'right' pencil case (Bang On The Door) or school shoes (Kickers), let alone the right outfit to be allowed to join the cool kids. It is so nice to not care anymore. If people want to be exclusive about their social group, and if it makes them feel better to deride others for not being as 'real' as them, then good luck to them.

I'll just be outside, with people I have unconditional appreciation for, not giving a flying...

A Meryl Streep Moment

2011-06-23T11:30:00.001+01:00

Put the words 'Meryl Streep' and 'fashion' together, and the first thing that will spring into most people's heads is a little-known movie called The Devil Wears Prada. Heard of it? No, me neither...

However, I am of the firm belief that Meryl's finest fashion hour was not during her depiction of Miranda 'Anna Wintour' Priestley. The Streep is such a brilliant actress, who throws her heart and soul into every role, that sometimes her elegant good looks get, well, overlooked. She has her own sense of style and has not been defined by fashion over the years, choosing instead to dress the way she wants to; very classic, and very cool.

90s red carpet awesomeness

YIKES! In character as Anna W-sorry Miranda Priestly, proving that platinum blondes rule *brushes shoulders off*

Anyone who can make Maggie look this good is a winner in my book.

And finally...check out that yearbook photo. No-one looks this good in one of these pics - she's clearly not human.

So it surprises me that it has taken this long for Meryl the Actress to become Meryl the Muse to a cool young designer. Peter Jensen, step up to the plate. I have been a longtime fan of Mr Jensen's work, ever since I busted in to his fashion show waaaaay back in 2007. As far as I can remember, it was girls in cardigans, creepers and quiffs - he pretty much had my heart from that point on.

Therefore I was pretty chuffed to see that Goddess Streep had been the inspiration for Jensen's unbelieveably awesome Resort 2012 lookbook. (Resort, btw, is the collection a designer puts out between their AW and SS collections, supposedly for the following summer's holiday clothes.A tradition from back in the olden days when women shopped once a season and planned their wardrobes in advance.) Some designers use it as a chance to reinvent some of their classics and get some more legwork out of them, others have a bit of fun with this collection - just like Mr Peter Jensen.

And lo, the Meryl Streep collection was born...

(All pics Peter Jensen Resort 2012)

I love the Cindy Sherman style atmosphere and set up of these pictures. They remind me of film stills, which in turn remind me of Sherman's famous Untitled Film Stills series - possibly my favourite photographic works to date - in which the photographer dressed up in various disguises and acted being an actress caught in a movie.

Cindy Sherman: Untitled Film Stills

There is definitely a link between the moody, weird shots from Jensen's lookbook and these photos: it's a weird, yet enjoyable, Sherman/Jensen/Streep mash up.

Not to be outdone, I unwittingly created my own Sherman effect with these shots of my big head imposed on Jensen's model's body (confused yet? I know, that's fashion for you).

The pics are from my post on Fashion Editor at Large, detailing my favourite looks from Resort 2012 collections. If you fancy a laugh. check it out - along with my Topshop Psychobilly post, and the unknown pleasures of trying to understand Donatella Versace as she explains the H&M collaboration in a video. Fashion: it's all good fun.

Images: IMDB, Style.com, Cindy Sherman

DAMN YOU, OPRAH WINFREY

2011-06-20T13:12:00.000+01:00

...or whoever it was who succesfully bid for Marilyn Monroe's Seven Year Itch dress, which was auctioned off this weekend for the sum of 4.6 million shiny American dollars. Mere pocket money, naturally, for writers such as myself - I could have bought two of them, but someone distracted me during the bidding. Goshdarnit.

In all seriousness, how incredible would it be to actually own that dress? The Hollywood actress Debbie Reynolds (who I always get mixed up with Jessica Fletcher of Murder She Wrote - just don't tell her that) owned several Marilyn costumes, as well as Judy Garland's Wizard of Oz dress and Charlie Chaplin's bowler hat. That's just a small slice of the collection that she was attempting to have made into a musuem, but unfortunately no-one took her up on that, so she's selling it all off, piece by piece. I think that's genuinely quite sad. Stamp collecting, fossil collecting, even Louboutin collecting; in general, collecting just ain't that cool a hobby. However, a collection of costumes that have played a part in the most significant moments in movie history? That would have been something worth seeing. Silly old LA for not creating the Debbie Reynold's museum.

Debbie Reynolds: diamonds in the day and massive hair. When I grown up I wanna be JUST like her.

I just hope that the person who now owns Marilyn's dress treasures it and does something amazing with it - it's too special to be hidden away in some freezer cabinet. Or worn, for that matter - somehow, as much as I love the Winfrey, I just don't think it would be a good look for her. On the other hand, if she needs a platinum blonde to model it, Monroe-stylee, I would have no qualms with stepping up to the plate. Altruism is just my middle name...

Oh Kimono!

2011-06-10T17:05:00.000+01:00

If there is one item of clothing that sends me into a fashion frenzy, it's a kimono robe. I know, not quite your everyday essential item - but I can't get enough of the ruddy things. There is something glamourous beyond words about swanning about the house in a vintage silk robe rather than Primark's finest flannel offering. In fact, those two words shouldn't even be allowed in the same sentence. But it's true, just as Dita von Teese eschews anything with an elasticated waist in favour of a cashmere dressing gown when she's at home, I too like something slinky, ideally with massive sleeves so I can waft around like a demented Miss Havisham. (It's a good look.)

This post was somewhat inspired by the previous ode to Pretty in Pink, in which Andie relaxes in an Oriental silk robe (it's peach, but I'll allow her some flexibility.) When she appears on screen, my little heart started beating faster, and it cemented my view that we could have hung out and compared kimono collections. More recently, in the swoon-licious Water for Elephants, I nearly leapt out of my seat in excitement - no, not when R-Patzz popped up, my boyfriend was covering my eyes at that point - when Reese Witherspoon casually threw a kimono over her spangly stage costume and it was if Jean Harlow was alive and well. I don't think the costume designers for Elephants were even trying to disguise the Harlow influence on Witherspoon's character, the similarities were too obvious - not that I'm complaining.

Reese slinking about in her kimono

The original slink-ster, Jean 'Bombshell' Harlow (above and below)

For daywear, some modern style icons are fellow robe fans. Paloma Faith took an absolute battering from certain publications (The Daily Mail: for the last word in style advice) for her Glamour Awards look. I thought she looked flipping sensational.

A devoted fan of Ashley Isham, her hairpiece 'creation' is Piers Atkinson's offering for Isham's AW11 collection, and I imagine the dress is bespoke from the designer. Either way, I think she looks magical, like a Western Geisha princess-type-woman. Clearly someone else who appreciates the power of a good kimono.

So, in my humble opinion, it's down with dressing gowns! Out with onesies! Let's raise the standard for stay-at-home wear and invest in one of these beautiful robes...

From La Senza, whose silk nightwear is definitely worth seeking out:

Blossom robe, £30, La Senza

Silk 'Evita' robe, £80 La Senza (no doubt named after Evita Peron, a woman of such legendary style who I would imagine owned a kimono robe or two...)

From Agent Provocateur - when will I get over my AP crush?! Maybe when I can afford to actually shop there.

The Matinee kimono, £495, Agent Provocateur, which I would give a tooth for. Seriously.

The Barbaretta kimono gown, Agent Provocateur (at £1295, you probably should wear it as evening wear to justify the price)

Authentic vintage Japanese style from Rokit, £45

And a delightful embroidered number from Beyond Retro, who periodically have the most amazing selection in store. I'll race you there...

In short, kimonos are the way forward, with an inspiring selection from high street, high end and all good vintage retailers near you. Failing that, raid your Nan's wardrobe, she'll probably have one knocking around. One word of warning; don't even think about trying to wash up wearing one of these beauties, you'll get soggy sleeve syndrome. I can't even drink tea when I'm wearing mine. So no domestic duties...what a shame!

Images: vintage postcard, Pattisonlife.com, Rex Features, retailers

Misfits Of The World Unite and Rejoice for PRETTY IN PINK.

2011-06-07T21:52:00.002+01:00

The one where I get addicted to John Hughes movies and realise Andie Walsh and I really should have been friends.

To date, my life has been somewhat defined by movie moments. In particular, my adolescent years were played out according to the teen movie that was flavour of the month at the time. They were an essential, unavoidable part of Noughties pop culture.

Time for a classic blogger's list...

10 Things I Hate About You: explained the appeal of the bad boy, and taught me the inimitable power of a public performance of a lip-synced love song. Undoubtedly one of Heath Ledger's greatest cinematic achievements.

Never Been Kissed: confirmed my worst fears, as a fourteen year old, that there are just some girls who go through senior school without receiving the faintest flicker of male attention. Get the violins out...seriously though, I'm sure my train tracks, Posh Spice haircut, and tendency to match my eyeshadow to the colour of my jumper had nothing to do with my lack of allure.

American Pie: taught me more about sex than I would ever care to admit and also kicked off my obsession with 'the nerdy one'. Ah, Finchy...

She's All That: Remember when Freddie Prinze Jr was actually cool? Yeah, me neither, but I remember him being good in this classic tale of geeky girl transforming into a popular prom queen. It gave me a small slither of hope.

What I didn't realise, at the time, was that all of these movies made use of the perfect formula created by John Hughes in the 1980s. Hughes was THE MAN when it came to the teen-movie genre; in fact, it's safe to say he pretty much invented the nerdy girl/geeky guy meets cool dude/hot chick, falls in love, teaches their friends that differences don't matter and snog at the prom storyline that has been used countless times since. And boy, are we suckers for it. Every time.

Considering how crucial these kind of movies are to me, I couldn't quite believe that I had never got around to watching Pretty In Pink from 1986, arguably Hughes finest work and the film that introduced Molly Ringwald, in all her flame haired, geek chic glory, to the world.

Misfits of the world unite, this is a teen movie especially for YOU!

Blane, Andie and The Duckman, showing off the latest 1986 fashwans.

Pretty in Pink tells the story of Andie, an outsider at school who has a single father, makes her own clothes and refuses to bow to peer pressure. Her bezzie mate is called Duckie, who is more rockabilly than Elvis himself, and who carries a burning torch for Andie - but she has fallen for 'richie' Blane, and it seems like their opposing tribes will never accept their romance. It's Romeo and Juliet, or Cinderella and Prince Charming (with Duckie as Buttons, natch) all over again. But Andie is no weeping wallflower, whispering her lovers name to the night. Oh No.

This girl is smart, tough, elegant, articulate, creative - and she has The Most Awesome Car In History.

Just take a second to appreciate the awesomeness.

She also shares my prediliction for kimonos, lace and general Chinoiserie:

Also, she goes to her Saturday job at a record store called Trax in a cardigan that would make even the most die-hard Beyond Retro gal weep with envy:

Also, the girl who owns the record store has a pretty legendary hairstyle/punk bitch attitude:

Iona, (Annie Potts), demonstrating things you never new hairspray was capable of.

I'm not going to give too much away about the story (although, tbh, it's not too tricky to work out from the teen movie formula) but when that prom moment rears it's head, it was heartwarming to witness another awkward teen girl checking out the designer garbs at a snooty store, before waltzing off home to create her own design. Pretty Woman, eat your heart out.

And what a gown it is...

Probably classed as a Man Repeller now, it is a prom dress of such epically cool construction, that I nearly wept with joy when this misfit for the masses, rocks up to the ball with her best friend on her arm. Because of course the Duckman is there to save the day. There is a special place in my heart for that one.

In short, I have decided that Andie and I were destined to be the closest of friends, if only I hadn't been a baby when the film was released, and if, er, she was actually real. But the thing is, she IS real - she represents anyone that has felt left out, not good enough, or just not 'normal' - when actually, that's pretty much everyone, whether they choose to admit it or not.

Now, I'm off to work my way through the rest of the John Hughes catalogue...

Heroes Week: A Weezer/Radiohead Sandwich of Musical Goodness

2011-05-29T10:02:00.000+01:00

This is Heroes Week. Helpfully, two of my musical heroes, those being Weezer and Radiohead, are neatly combined in this little video, like a tasty treat of audio goodness. The aural equivalent of a Sherbet Fountain for your eardrums, this is Weezer covering Paranoid Android.

Somehow, watching a band you normally associate with comedy lyrics and surfer pop riffs do such a serious song makes me really appreciate their technical genius. Rivers Cuomo rules - watching him simultaneously bounce on a trampette, wear a cat hat and sing at Reading last year was one of the highlights of the festival.

Radiohead have had a special place in my heart for a long time; like a lot of others, I didn't understand them as a kid, with their dark, depressing lyrics, and Thom Yorke's unnervingly weird voice. But then I grew up and found myself in Victoria Park, watching them perform as the sun set it the distance, with thousands of people hanging off every note. I got it then.

Radiohead and their dangly lights at Victoria Park, June 2008. A beautiful day.

Heroes Week: Debbie Harry Has My Heart (Of Glass)

2011-05-25T07:40:00.000+01:00

I can't remember the exact moment when I fell madly in love with Deborah Harry, but my obsession has now infiltrated my daily life. If I'm not listening to Blondie, then I'm cutting my hair like Debbie, attempting to perfect her unique eye make up look or deciding 'what would debbie do' when I'm having a fashion crisis. Don't worry, this is not the beginning of an identity crisis - I just like to think of Debbie as a pretty good mentor.

Seriously, I have genuine empathy with the millions of teenage boys who gazed lovingly at their posters of Debbie back in the 70s - those same iconic images are now dotted around my living quarters. Those cheekbones...those lips...those eyes...!

Part of Miss Harry's enduring allure is her ability to be effortlessly, unashamedly cool. Not that she ever really cared, but as she now approaches 70, she cares even less about what the flip people think of her (I can't wait to be an outrageous granny. It's only a matter of time.)
She wears whatever the hell she wants, speaks her mind and rocks out on stage like she is 25 again. The Blondie songs still make me jump around, singing 'hanging on the telephone' into the hoover tube or pretending I'm on the cover of Parallel Lines (the only reasons I know how to spell 'parallel' is from spending so much time staring at that LP sleeve.)

Oh, and she's still hot. Yeah, she has had some surgery, and yeah, she'll don a platinum wig on stage, but find me a diva of her age who doesn't? Debbie is a unique creature - a rock queen who dresses neither for the boys nor the girls. She's just Debbie; beautiful, perfect and straight-to-the-point wonderful. And she gets that we all grow old, even though most people still think of her in her seventies heyday. Lorry drivers still shout out 'Blondie!' at her, even, as she says, "I have to run out in front of the lorry first."

Heroes Week: Gaga For Gaga and Proud Of It

2011-05-19T11:25:00.000+01:00

Heroes: a series of posts about the women that set my little world on fire. First up, Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta a.k.a MOTHER MONSTER.

Maybe I'm really, really stupid. Or just completely gullible and naïve. But Lady Gaga has well and truly got under my skin. If it's all a big marketing scam, and every outrageous statement, every new hairstyle, and every thrust of her PVC pregnancy belly is controlled by the puppeteers at Universal, then I'm a fool for believing it. But the truth is, I'm a happy fool.

I'm contented to revel in the euphoric escapism she provides. It's not like her albums are my most played on iTunes; yeah, the songs are catchy as hell, but they need to be listened to in context (busting some moves on a dancefloor, not on the 8.02 from Brighton to St Pancras). What's so flipping brilliant about her is the live shows.

No-one can match her performances for drama, style, and energy - I would happily watch one of her shows every week. The Monster Ball at the O2 last year was the greatest pop concert, in the old fashioned sense, that I've ever seen. By an intergalactic mile. For two and a half hours, one girl, just a few months older than me (eugh!) had 14000 people enthralled. Somehow I don't think marketing and branding is all that powerful, no matter what the agencies would have you believe.

Watching her interviews and performances from last weekend's Radio 1 gig, it's obvious that she is master of her own art, passionate to the core about the music she makes and her life-consuming artistic vision. Her voice is just as dangerous a weapon as the spikes that cover her clothing. Yes, she takes inspiration from pop history like a kid in a sweet shop; a little bit of Stardust here, a sprinkling of Cher drops there, and some Like a Virgins everywhere. But who doesn't get inspired by things that have gone before? At least she is making them for her own.

In fact, scrap that, she is balls-out OBSESSED. Deluded, pretentious, and more than a little bit mental, maybe. A girl who isn't gay, singing songs camper than a sleepover with Elton John and Graham Norton. A girl who treats her body as an art piece. An asexual who uses sex as a form of communication. A daddy's girl. But most of all, a girl who doesn't give a flying flip about what people think.

And that's why I love her. Gaga Forever.

Images: BBC, Posh24, Shropshire Star

Teen Girls = Mean Girls (But Sometimes They Are Friends For Life)

2011-05-14T13:57:00.002+01:00

Last weekend, I went through the twenty-something rite of passage of attending my first school friend's hen do. It was quite the heart warming female bonding session as we celebrated the new life of one of my oldest friends - even if it was surreal to think of her becoming a WIFE. Hold on, was this the same girl that I have spent the last 12 years with, copying each other's homework, crying down the phone about boys and enduring each other's questionable haircuts? A W.I.F.E. Serious grown up territory.

Aged 14...

And aged 24, preparing for Amanda's hen do!

Over the course of the weekend, I got to thinking (as you do after an Absinthe cocktail or two) about the extreme depth of female friendship. I defy the stereotyped idea of women gossiping inane nonsense; yes, we can chat, but we also trust our closest friends with our hopes, problems, ideas. Sometimes, however, female friendships are a very weird, very specific experience. I'm not talking about the deep rooted friendships that feel more like family ties, but the strange bonds girls make when they are young and impressionable (or rather, more young and impressionable than we still are in our twenties...!)

These all-consuming, intense bonds are formed when teenage girls are at their most awkward age (anyone fancy going back there? yeah, me neither.) Friendships instantly created, that are composed of an unbreakable bond of trust, to the point where they feel more like a relationship than a friendship. Sometimes, these unions transcend to the levels of long term pal-hood, but frequently they implode when one person does something to break the bond. There's a fine line...and all that. They are the supernovas of the friendship world; blindingly brilliant but gone in a flash. A little bit like the career of a certain Ms Lohan, who starred in possibly the greatest movie about teenage girls OF ALL TIME.

Mean Girls: "I know, right?"

I had a couple of these experiences when I was younger; you make a new BFF and want to hang out with them All The Time. Then we would fall out (sometimes over a boy, more often because one of us grew out of the friendships just as quickly as we had fallen into them.) It's a very strange thing.

Speaking of weirdly intense friendships, was anyone else traumatised by Peter Jackson's 1994 film Heavenly Creatures? I sneakily watched it on my own when I was about 13, and it spooked the life out of me.

These were the days when Peter Jackson made films about actual people rather than hobbits chasing after rings, and he wrote the screenplay with his wife Fran Walsh, basing it on the true story of a murder committed by a pair of teenage girls in 1950s New Zealand. It also stars a then unknown little actress named Kate Winslet, making her movie debut.

The unsettling story of the two girls, who form a freakishly intense friendship, has stayed with me for a long time. Their lives become completely intertwined, to the point where their imaginations take them to made-up worlds and they become characters in their own fantasy. The dangerous fanaticism that exists between them drives them together and pushes reality out, with one horrifying consequence.

(On a side note, Kate's acting is pure drama school class and the 1950s costumes probably set me on a vintage tangent for the rest of my life.)

Another equally weird movie that documents the unique female bond is Thirteen, directed by Catherine Hardwicke (aka the original and best of the Twilight directors), starring Nikki Reed before she got all sparkly as Rosalie Cullen, and Evan Rachel Wood, before she became a homewrecking Dita von Teese wannabe.

Thirteen gets me right there because it represents how much your friends influence you as you become a weird half-child, half-adult hybrid, and how important they are as we turn running and screaming away from our families (otherwise known as the 'Kevin' phase.) However, I defy any girl/woman to not cry at the moment that the mother intervenes and forces a hug on her otherwise feral daughter, causing her to slump to the ground in one big emotional mess. She also knocks over a box of cornflakes in the process, which in my household, would have instantly killed the emotional epiphany as my Mum went off to get a dustpan and brush.

So there you have it boys; a leetle insight into the unique female experience. Thankfully, not all our friendships culminate in murder, jail time or a drugs intervention, but girls do know how to do friendship better than anyone. And as for my best buddies, I hope we'll still be celebrating knowing each other when we are 34, 44, 54... (not that we'll ever actually be that old, obviously)

Images: George Langford, Wingnut films, Fox Searchlight

My Big Fat Wedding Comedown

2011-05-01T12:35:00.000+01:00

Is it possible to go cold turkey from Royal Wedding fever? Along with (most) of the rest of the country, I was severely afflicted by this epidemic on Friday, suspended in a state somewhere between hyper and hysterical up until the Queen decided 'bugger this' and shuffled her family off Buck House balcony. As soon as those French doors closed, their fetching net curtains billowing in the breeze created by a million people screaming, I felt my mental state deteriorate faster than you can drive an Austin Martin from Buckingham Palace to Clarence House (all of 900 metres) And to think, back in November, I hadn't been all that fussed when William Wales announced his engagement to Kate 'The Hair' Middleton. I'd stopped fancying him around the time that Britney Spears stopped being cool.

Nice Wheels!

But by Friday, I found myself in full, unbridled Royalist mode. I barely slept on Thursday and was up at 6am on the wedding morning, more excited than a kid at Christmas (and frequent readers will know just how much of a big deal that is. They don't call me George 'Three Trees' Langford for nothin'.) I woke my mother up at 8am by calling her just to express my fervent DISGUST at the couple's new titles: The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge?! Why didn't Her Maj just make William 'Earl of Boring' while she was at it?

Having rocked up to my in-laws at 9am (we don't own a telly, and I wasn't going to miss an opportunity to watch Tara PT's nose wobble in 32 inch High Definition at their place) we quickly got in the festive spirit. Even my adopted cat got involved. He would have made a good bridesmaid.

We then moved venues while the Beeb were doing their first of the 'unnecessary and totally random interviews with a close friend of the couple' bits, which would pepper the day's coverage. Did we really need to know what the ingredients of William's fave post-gym smoothie are, BBC? As I tweeted at the time, it really was all killer, no filler from Broadcasting Corp on Friday, saved only by the legend that is Huw Edwards, whose cheeky Welsh wit competed only for attention between his fluro-tan and his neon pink tie. Go Huw!

At 10am, I nearly flattened my friend Dan in my Roadrunner style approach to their sofa. Thankfully, we were all present and correct at the moment when Harry and Wills pulled out of Clarence House, fully regailia'ed up, looking like something out of Top Gun, except their uniforms where red and black instead of white. Hello boys! Again, I don't even fancy poshos, but those boys did wonders for the reputation for British men as their buttons gleamed and their hats neatly hid their bald patches (yes Harry, you too have succombed to the Windsor curse.)

Fast forward past various thousand digitaries and slebs arriving at the Abbey - bless David Beckham, looking so suave, only to be swiftly told he had his OBE on the wrong lapel. Doh! - to the moment we had all been waiting for. The Queen, in all her buttercup glory, was seated in a face off to Carole Middleton's pale blue coat and matching Cheshire cat grin combo, and the artist formerly known as Kate Middleton was ON THE MOVE. I was kinda bummed that even with all that poncing about with plastic sheeting, we all still saw the dress as she jumped into the car with the world's proudest dad. However, it was flipping gosh darn perfect when she stepped out of the abbey, teeth n' hair shining, looking like a 2011 Grace Kelly (with brown hair, obviously.) When Pippa 'Hot Bot' Middleton jumped out to hold the train, every male I was with dropped their Battenburg to ogle the screen, but I wasn't going to allow a little chauvinism ruin my enjoyment of this fantasy day.

HRH Princess Perfect.

The ceremony was incredible. I'm not really into God stuff, but as a nation, we don't half do it well. The tradition, the theatre, even the trees in the Abbey looked perfect. It was obviously a bit greedy for Kate and Wills to have about four vicars to conduct one wedding ceremony, which was mostly hymns anyway, but the whole team did a 'great job!'. My highlights included; Kate nearly snapping her Dad's hand off as she gripped it all the way up the aisle, Harry whispering 'she's a bit of alright' to Wills (in posho speak, naturally) upon spying the bride, the couple barely moving their faces during the vows for fear of cracking up, the choirboys making their mum's proud, SamCam refusing to wear a hat, Kate and Wills sharing a smirk during the sermon and the nun sat next to William wearing a pair of black Reeboks. Awesome.

Must.Not.Cry.

After that point, I felt most sorry for the couple's hands, because no bride and bridegroom have wiggled their digits as much as those two on Friday. Those waves were spot-on. Kate's not fully up to the Queen's closed fingered subtle rotation yet, but hey, she's got 50 odd years to get it right. I particularly enjoyed the couple's sneaky hand-hold as they went under the arch, thinking no-one could see them. But not to worry, the Beeb had got a camera there! Honestly, I think if someone had picked their nose, the BBC would have had a camera positioned at exactly the right angle to capture it. Saying that, I thought we were close to that when little Grace Van Cutsem's fingers snaked up to her schnozz on the balcony. Thankfully, she went for the hysterical 'hands over ears' pose that provided yet another comedy moment during The Kiss.

Woah, devil child alert.

And what a kiss it was. To be honest, I had been hoping for a full on snog, which would have proven the Royal's really are determined to move with the times. No-one does a little peck on their wedding day; if you can't have a full on PDA then, when can you?

Altogether in true British style, "Wahey!"

But hey, they gave us two smooches, and as the daughter of a World War fanatic, I got shivers to see the planes fly over Buckingham Palace. I think they captured the spirit of patriotism that for once, engulfed the UK. Yes, living in this country has been just a little bit, well, shit, over the past few years, but seeing the Royal's put on a display of happy, modern family life, million's of tourists pouring in to witness pomp and circumstance as only we know how, and the unity that was created from one couple being in love, I felt very proud to be English on Friday. And the celebrations aren't over yet. Now where did I put that bunting...

Something Old, Something New...

2011-04-26T11:34:00.001+01:00

It's official. After months of being fairly resilient, I suddenly feel my temperature raised, my heart quicken in pace, and my palms grow clammy with anticipatory excitement. Sad but true - it's a serious case of royal wedding fever.

I could wax lyrical about all number of aspects pertaining to the events of April 29th, but before I start waffling on about tea towels and bunting, this post is dedicated to all things sparkly.

That's right, this not-so-fashion-blogger is going to write about jewellery.

Now, massive sapphire engagement rings aside (got your M&S rip off version yet?) what I'm most fixated on is the tiara. What diamond delight is Princess Middleton gonna have perched upon her royal bonce when leaving the Abbey? According to one website, there are about 300 for her to pick from in the Royal Family's collection. That's a lot of rocks. Having done some serious research into the matter (cos, y'know, this is a serious matter indeed) I'm particularly favouring the Strathmore Rose tiara, as modelled here by a very sprightly Queen Mother back in the day.

How lovely does she look? Scrubs up well for an old flapper.

That's the one I would wear, anyway, if it were me. Not that you would catch me marrying William Wales, (delightful a man as I'm sure he is) with those teeth.

In true wedding tradition, the tiara would be my 'something borrowed'. My something 'old' would be pretty much anything from Susan Caplan's incomparable vintage selection (although classic 80s Chanel costume might be a little too ghetto, I think a bejewelled bird brooch could work.)

A glitter...bird from Susan Caplan, along with a wonderful vintage Butler and Wilson necklace.

If I was feeling a little bit Madonna circa 'like a virgin' phase, I could get a crucifix ring or three from Regal Rose for my 'something new'.

Regal Rose Rings. Try saying that with your mouth full.

And for sheer beautiful wonderment, my 'something blue' would be this:

A preserved butterfly wing from Bjorg, officially my second favourite jewellery brand after long standing love Dominic Jones. Others have pulled a repulsed face at the thought of wearing a dead insect round your neck, but my inner witchy weirdo can't see a problem with it. Especially for a wedding day. Not that I'm getting married, just to clarify once again. Don't get any funny ideas.

GL

Images: Fulham Chronicle, Royal Family, Susan Caplan, Regal Rose, Bjorg

Dave Grohl: We're Not Worthy!

2011-04-18T20:55:00.001+01:00

A 90s grunge revival is currently underway in my household, and it is the result of two occurrences:

#1. I recently enjoyed a viewing of Wasting Light, the Foo Fighters' documentary movie, which cemented their already-pretty-secure place in my heart.

#2. My boyfriend introduced me to the wonders that are Wayne's World and Wayne's World 2. Alright, I know, I'm a nearly 25 year old who hadn't seen Wayne's World yet. Feel free to mock, and then we'll move on.

So the combination of the musical and visual enjoyment in these three movies now means my head is filled with a Generation Game style conveyor belt of classic Foos riffs, plaid shirts, 80s hair rock and grunger boys saying 'schwing!' (If like me, you had spent the last 10 years confused by this, ask your brother.)

Although I was a little late to the grunge party, one of my first 'proper' gigs was at Earls Court, watching Dave & co. I'd paid through the nose for tout tickets, and had to smash my way back into my flat after the gig, having locked myself out, so it was a pretty memorable night, all in all.

One vivid recollection is of naively enjoying the front and centre standing position I had managed to secure, before the first strains of 'Hero' fired up, at which point it felt like the entire crowd was attempting to push past me and join the band on stage. Ladies and gentlemen, I had just experienced my first pit, and it was something of a shock to the system. How times have changed...

Anyway, the memory that burns most brightly, is Dave Grohl's astoundingly immense, loveable, funny, loud, perfect stage presence. This man had the crowd suspended by his very guitar strings! A true rock god! And noticeably lacking in cliche rockstar arrogance, with it. What an unbelievable chap he really must be.

From then on, the Foo Fighters provided a soundtrack to the most awkward events of my late teens (cheated on your boyfriend? No worries, Dave has written a song called Best of You, all about the relevant subject, that will be played incessantly on radio throughout many a cringey conversation.)

Watching Wasting Light, however, reinforced why Dave always knows exactly what to write - he has been there, done that, been in one legendary rock band, felt the pain of a friend's premature death, the come back, with several other legendary rock bands, plus a family he adores.

Dave Grohl: The funniest face in rawk.

I strongly advise you watch the documentary even if you are not a massive fan (although, in which case, could you please explain yourself?!) Because it's a laugh-a-minute. Even when they are talking about the sad stuff. Because it's the most honest depiction of what being in a rock band is like. Because the guys in the band genuinely love every second of what they do, and are not afraid to show their gratitude to their fans. And, as Wayne and Garth would say, Dave Grohl really is

What An Absolute Beginner

2011-04-14T12:20:00.001+01:00

My newly extended commute has provided me with an extra three hours a day in which to read to my little heart's content. Therefore I have been a loyal patron of Brighton library, which, thankfully, is not the usual Catherine Cookson-stuffed affair that is the norm for Sussex libraries. No, Brighton has a huge selection of great titles which I am on a mission to read (and even self-checkout machines, which thankfully don't screech at you like supermarket ones.) I really enjoy our fortnightly trips to the temple of books, laden down with hardbacks, only to leave weighed down with more.

One of my recent literary adventures has been with Colin MacInnes' 'Absolute Beginners'; a novel that celebrates the teenage empire that was 1959, London in all it's versatile glory and the dangerous race riots on the city streets. I was lured in my the blurb's promise of neon Soho, jazz halls, teenage romance and the culture of one of my favourite eras. On those fronts, Absolute Beginners perfectly captures the zeitgeist; the language, the desires, the dreams of the first ever 'teenagers'. They were a whole new tribe who revelled in both the new-found celebration of their identity, and also the fear that it inspired in 'grown ups'. MacInnes literally takes hold of your coat sleeve and drags you through all of London, in its' Fifties glamour, glitter, dirt and destruction. I loved every second.

However, I forgot that this was not my first encounter with the nameless protagonist, his ex-love, Crepe Suzette (Suze) and best gay friend, the Fabulous Hoplite. In fact, whilst sheltering from the rain on the first day of Vintage at Goodwood festival last August, I had stumbled in to the cinema tent, a few minutes in to a showing of Absolute Beginners, the movie. It was a fairly surreal moment; having not a Scooby about the storyline or premise, I couldn't work out whether the film was set in the 80s or the 50s or a weird hybrid of both, what Patsy Kensit was doing singing in the role of Suzette, and why David Bowie was doing a tap dance on a giant typewriter?!

Having now read the novel (which is always advisory before watching a cinematic interpretation, in my humble opinion) I think it's time to revisit that crazy movie, and here's a little taster, to inspire you to do the same.

Blondes Have More Fun - Or Do They?

2011-04-03T21:58:00.002+01:00

I have been platinum blonde/white-haired/albino for the past two years now, with a regular once a month peroxide session (thanks, Jerome Russel). It's been a blast - the allure of a super blonde 'do will never fade, thanks to the likes of Marilyn Monroe and a certain Ms D Harry. However, I picked up this zine from BLEACH hair salon about a month ago, and I haven't been able to tear my eyes away from the colourful pages.

(Apologies for the serial killer-esque heavy breathing, I was actually attempting to hold my breath so not to ruin the inspirational content. Alas, that didn't work out.)

Obviously, as a sister business to the incredible WAH nail salon, you kinda know that BLEACH was always going to be super cool. The branding is simple and slick - the name, even the typeface used for the logo is a direct Nirvana reference, and subsequently a reminder that in case you hadn't noticed, anyone who was originally 10 years old, 15 years ago, is now dressing as if it were 1992.

The salon in East London has been open since last year and the Topshop offshoot has been open for the past few months - dip dye hair has become synonymous with Toppers because every one of their campaign models had been 'Bleached'. At London Fashion Week every other lady had green or pink 'ends', and now every fashionable kid from Dulwich to Dalston is saving their pennies to go and have their standard colour hair transformed into a magical, multi-shade creation.

Clothes by Topshop 'New Age Constellation' collection, Hair by Bleach

Now, as much as I would love for the hair artiste that is Alex Brownsell to transform my pale locks into something more spectacular, at the moment, pennies do not permit. To be honest, I am always a little bit reserved when it comes to hairdressing; my home peroxide kits have been serving me well at £1.50 a pop.

Step up Stargazer. Yes, the make up brand of emo kids and grungers everywhere has been going for decades, constantly supplying weirdos with every random hair colour a heart could desire. You can even mix them together, if you are brave enough.

(And at £5 a bottle, it's a little easier on the pocket, until you can afford a trip to see the professionals!)

Basically, I have been threatening to sort out my mono-colour hair for a while now, and this weekend, my platinum days came to an end.

In the space of one quick shampoo, I went from angelic albino...

(Yes, that is a signed picture of Fielding and Barratt on my dressing table, what of it?)

..to something slightly more vibrant. I'm calling it 'highlighter chic'.

So thanks for the inspiration, BLEACH - hopefully by the time I get bored with the pink I'll be able to leave my hair in your capable hands. Until then, I've got Stargazer and Kurt Cobain for company.

Almost Famous

2011-03-24T09:00:00.000Z

As a teenager, I just didn't get the Seventies. The epitome of retro style, as far as I was concerned, could be found concentrated between 1930 and 1959 (I also had a problem accepting that Sixties fashion was ever cool - blame Austin Powers.)

The flares, the tassels, the hippy-trippy headscarves and crazy platform boots. To me, the Seventies represented the absolute dregs of a naff fancy dress shop. My Mum, although a child of the Seventies, is also a compulsive de-clutterer, and nothing remains in her wardrobe for more than about a year. So the only evidence of her stylish teenagedom was a Laura Ashley skirt and a fur coat; not exactly the foundations of a fashion archive.

A classic Laura Ashley smock dress - any 17 year old's idea of hell.

My initial indifference towards this era turned to repulsion after a trend for Afghan coats in about 2003 produced a slew of high street copies, which ended up on the bedroom floors of my contemporaries. Afghan (or mock Afghan, more to the point) is incredibly hard to keep clean, as it's shaggy tendrils catch every mite of grime in the vicinity. Combine that with the heady behaviour of non-too-hygienic teenage girls and all their joyous experimentation with smelly substances of all kinds, and you get a very stinky coat. Hence, my aversion to everything Seventies continued.

And then, one day, everything changed. It's hard to believe I haven't written about Almost Famous before - it might just be a movie, but it actually changed my life.

The music, the story, the free spirited attitude of characters determined to live their lives right now, all hooked me in. Truth be told, it was the hero's story that made me change universities to study journalism; so that one day I could tell the world the truth about what really happened. Penny Lane - what an icon. No wonder Kate Hudson hasn't done anything good since, how do you top the perfect portrayal of a Seventies Band Aid?

Since that fateful day, my adoration of true Seventies rock-groupie style has simply grown stronger. Aided and abetted by the fact that Studio 54 is currently the reference point for every designer going, it has been easy to fuel my addiction. A friend of mine at House of Fraser even sent me this picture of the ever delectable Daisy Lowe, looking hawt as the ultimate Biba chick. Nice bit of eye candy for the desktop...ahem.

I have been trawling my favourite vintage emporiums for suitably Stevie Nicks-esque attire (all in the name of research) but in the end, the noble steed that is eBay came to my rescue. You know everyone has their incredible 'wow what a magical bargain' item from the Bay? Well, this is mine, and after years of failed bidding wars, I am damn proud, goshdarnit!

Now all I need are some flowers in my hair, a Stillwater t-shirt and a boy in a band...(1 and 3, check, the t-shirt; a little more tricky) Find me this summer in a festival field near you, rocking out like a bonafide Band Aid. Peace out, man.

Images: Laura Ashley archive, Almost Famous, BIBA, George Langford

R.I.P. To The First Lady of Glamour: Elizabeth Taylor

2011-03-23T14:57:00.002Z

They just don't make them like this anymore:

This picture actually made a little sob catch in my throat. She was astonishingly beautiful.