Sunday, 18 December 2011

Let's talk different area codes.

'People watching': call it TOWIE for the highly critical…or X factor for those who find the general insanity of the populous far more hilarious/mentally stimulating than generically scripted mass market watershed viewing. 

I find 'People Watching" assists in doubly confirming that despite being slightly unhinged after a rather turbulent life thus far/gin, I am without a doubt, of sound and healthy mind. 

Yes, I could quite easily go on to speak of the ever mumbling heroin dependant weirdo's you see clutching the trusty can of Super Tenant's they have managed to acquire as the nights chosen form of escapism. 
Or busker's who shamelessly see it as perfectly acceptable to receive payment for singing (with the assistance of some rather offensive tuning) shit cover's of the latest Ed Sheeran track (in an attempt at being sincere/sensitive) or merely whistling (PISS TAKE!!!) 

However…going off on a rambling tangent as per usual- the cultural smorgasbord that is the great capital appears to divvy up an distinctive uniform attached to each postal code you encounter. An unwritten code of couture that can assists in pinpointing the exact location of where the wearer calls 'Home' 

Lets take a tour…

E1- Brick Lane/Old Street/Camden- 

Dress Code- Edgy, slightly grubby, artistic student with over 16 pairs of 'signature' winkle pickers and a love of roll up ciggies…pre-rolled are far too generic/pricey.

Call me insulting, but the joy of blogging is to vent true feelings without the risk of a punch in the face…yes the inhabitants of E1 scream shabby chic, everyone appears to own an SLR, a shit bike with a basket on the front and have the ability to express photographic prowess that surpasses sepia and greyscale- all of which visually deducible by the criminally tight skinny jeans and army surplus store jacket the fashionista being surveyed is proudly donning…

By the way, the jacket was bought second-hand of course…so fucking cool, just the way Amy Winehouse (RIP) and Mumford and Sons would have done things.

Take a trip west…venture past Victoria and you hit what I like to call the Fur & Leather district aka Chelsea/Fulham/Putney

Night time/Raffles dress code: Basil Brush would be slaughtered and manipulated into shrug like accessory to accompany a pair of leather leggings and a severely damaged barnet faster than you could say "Lets go shooting in Dorset this weekend Binky"

SW3 day wear- 2 words- Quilting & Wellies. You'd think people in SW3 earned their Bentley Continental car insurance cash from agricultural farming, perceiving country side couture avec a pearl necklace/flat cap as attire that cannot and should not be mocked. Colour scheme's are heavily weighted towards the earthier end of the pantone colour chart and the plague that is the 'corduroy/chino pant' reigns supreme…Atrocious.

Its amazing how these 'on trend' wardrobe selections are demoted to wardrobe malfunctions as you exit the 'F&L' district and hit up the SW2, less than a mile down the road (aka Brixton) where there is actual government legislation which states…

"Inhabitants below the age of 22 are not permitted to exit dwellings without the accompaniment of a 'Boy Better Know' branded item of clothing"

Honestly…look it up…it was a clause widely supported by Boris Johnson (this is a lie…do not sue me for libel/defamation) 

Take a tour to SE and fashion is thrown in a giant melting pot, key ingredients being Juicy Couture & imitation Ugg Boots as you hit the Catford/Bromley border and Peckham/Lewisham boasting a vast selection of giant gold decorations that have the power to make your ear lobes look as green as an old penny. 
Drum & Bass/Dubstep over take The Saturdays in the album charts bringing with it high top trainers, scruffy buns and the replacement of 'ers' ending words with 'az'…e.g…'Gun Fingers' evolves into 'Gun Fingaz' as its being punched out at lightening speed on the phone keypad of one of SE's urban offerings. 

Yes London has an extensive clothing collection… a walk in wardrobe that any woman would wildly give her left ovary up for. 

I'm not too sure where I belong…5 years of Brighton living mean I am still in 'individual/non conformist yet I still shop in high street chain stores' mode…

Still yet to find my style mojo in this place however I can honestly say I will leave hypocrisy at the door. If you can't beat em'…join em. I've just placed an ad on Gumtree London…

'Young female professional seeking double room for flatshare in the Fur & Leather district'

Sister done sold out.

Tuesday, 6 December 2011

The Perception of Intelligence for The New Girl About Town.

Entering into the abyss…the 020 area code that regurgitates its own set of rules designed to illustrate how far from cool the rest of the nation are…London to a newbie…a young woman so heavily shrouded in the safe confines of rural britain…is a city that opens the gate to a long and winding road of high flying frivolity with the odd magnum of champagne thrown into the mix.

I entered this world craving success and fulfilment that extended further than a prestigious home made lasagne and pro-creation…that surpassed the expectations of the pessimistic onlooker…I wanted  to live a life where my existence didn’t resemble a savage climb towards the unreachable breadline, were 132.9p petrol didn’t leave me perspiring in rage, just mere irritation and Ribena was a regular purchase and not merely a luxury only ever bought in bulk when Asda, Tesco's or Sainsbury's decided to knock off a couple of quid on account of over ordering.

However, despite the inner thirst for success that pulses through the blood in my veins, I have found, through observation, experience and the use of the following equation: 

Tits + ass + lip gloss + laughing at jokes that are not funny + adhering to the immediate assumption that if you are female and your lungs encounter the big smoke on a day to day basis, you must be either a nanny, in fashion or married to a banker/stock broker and the proud part owner of a Range Rover despite your daily milage count being roughly 4 miles….

…the perception of intelligence people have of you is particularly unimpressive. Long winded I know, but these are the ramblings of an irritated Londoner. 

London's inhabitants immediately deduce me as the new girl set to endeavour a rapid metamorphosis from the black girl next door (yes, I am black and this articulate ra ra raaa)…to emerging from a cocaine coated chrysalis and becoming the west end girl in desperate need of a nicotine patch and a hairbrush. 

The perception of intelligence rapidly shrivels with ever meet and greet, like the slimy epidermis of a ravenous slug after the greedy bugger put too much salt on his chips. 
It's come to the point where people I have met believe me to be so simple, if I express the tiniest essence of knowledge regarding anything that isn't screened repeatedly on the Home channel, a glint of shock, surprise and awe appears in the face of said audience for just a second before being encased in a gloomy syrup of patronisation and gold stars. 

I've taken to throwing in random and inaccurate percentage statistics into conversations to enhance the perception of intelligence people have of me…drawing hilarity from the people who will happily accept the 'fact' that "if left to their own devices, 78% of people chose to use Android system over IOS but were swayed as a result of a pushy sales pitch from network providers"

Total bollocks…utter drivel…but when said with some conviction and confidence..chowed down like a Cadburys Curly Wurly. 

Don't get me wrong I adore this city and all of the delights it offers…but the new girl about town  gets pretty tired of being perceived as somebody who's IQ and shoe size are comparable…

Oh well, flick of the hair, G-string on show, push up bra pumped up like a set of Goodyear's and I'm set….now can somebody get me a club promoter boyfriend and point me in the direction of Tara Palmer Tomkinson…I'm going places. 

Wednesday, 23 November 2011

The Persistent Irritation of Public Transport

The one thing that binds us londoners...a rat race of anonymity trained to instinctively apply a firmer grip to the handbag/manbag/briefcase/child, at the mere glance of somebody who isn't a close relative or a our disdain for the curse that is public transport.
Too hot..too cold...unpleasantly warm...the tube is like a youngest sibling: something that can and should be used everyday however you would very much like it to no longer be in existence on account of its persistent irritation and wavering reliability.

The thought process that sped through the mind of the genius that created the infamous tube is one that clearly must have involved some kind of amphetamine. Picture it now...I'll set the scene:

Caucasian male, 6ft, stood in a field listening to deep house and tripping off acid: "mate...,what if we all just became one?...Like, all conjoined in a metal transportation system, powered solely by body heat and numbers? Worming our way through an interconnected web of tunnels built 10's of metre's below the ground?..That would be sick!"

Call me pessimistic or what have it, but if any self respecting member of the public pitched this idea to Deborah Meaden and Duncan Bannatyne..they would be carted off in a straight jacket and a nappy.

Yes, it's a land mark, a statement representative of the great city that is London. Something that tourists carrying all the gear and no idea can take pictures of whilst generically/excitedly waving the peace sign at their moment capturing lenses.

To us...pure irritation.

Have you ever watched the lips of platform inhabitants whenever they discover "THE VICTORIA & PICCADILLY & HAMMERSMITH AND CITY & DISTRICT LINE" are experiencing severe delays?
Deaf people much experience such offence during these annoyingly frequent moments as every single passer by's lip syncing is as obvious as that of an ITV broadcast footie match featuring Wayne Rooney and a particularly strict referee.

"For fucks sake" "Oh fuck off" "Are you fucking serious"- all of which followed by a speedy reach for the iPhone to inform the wife/girlfriend/boss/mistress of the inconvenience that has time this happens aka, your next journey, observe...its hilarious.

Then there is the issue of the public...the public ruin public transport. I mean it's bad enough in the morning when your wedged in with a collection of people who see fully fledged yawning without the accompaniment of a courteous covering of the mouth as completely acceptable. Or when you find yourself acting as some kind of cushion for the gut sporting business man to your right who's dandruff shrouded, balding head is lolling on your shoulder during his 7 am saliva clad snooze. Throw a 26 degree (minimum) summer in there and an armpit in your face and you feel like your on the midnight train to Auschwitz.

Then there's the guy next to you blasting out the latest nonsense from the 'Bomfunk Mc's" and the knob head to the right who has just fallen victim to the unexpected follow up sneeze. You know, the one that proceeds the initial tidy little polite squeak that came to surface as a result of a miscellaneous bit of dust. You know, the mucus ridden mess that leaves the culprit shamefully stood in centre stage of the sweaty amphitheatre that is the 07.35 northern line train to Morden.

You're stood watching as the cogs turn, calculating the next move then you watch as 'Mr Sneazy' subtly/so fucking blatantly rubs the sticky aftermath on his left trouser leg and proceeds to clutch the same railing you are firmly grasping.

That my friends...sums up the ramblings of an irritated Londoner re: The Tube.

God speed you bastards! xx