A Tough Time to be Twenty?

Ahh, the Facebook envy.

Ah, these media-frenzied times that we live in. For anyone who picks up a newspaper every once in a while or tunes into the rolling broadcasts that frequent our television sets, it would appear that we are living in the worst times possible. Aren’t we youngsters miserable, stuck living in our parent’s spare room or having nervous breakdowns a la Amanda Bynes? We’re working for free because although we paid an extortionate amount to put ourselves through university, a decent degree doesn’t mean too much these days. We are pretty sure that we won’t be signing up for mortgages until we reach our mid-forties and all whilst simultaneously attempting to pay off our credit card debt. Yes, it all sounds terribly depressing. Ask anyone from the age of eighteen to thirty and they might tell you just how much generation Y has been short-changed.

However, it may not be the times that we live in but the access that we have to everyone’s lives. Back in the 1960s when my parents were growing up, times were just as hard. My father worked three jobs just to save up for his first car- a battered vehicle I’m not entirely sure was road-worthy. My mother moved out from her parents house when she left school, into a cold dark flat that she shared with three other girls. Heating was a luxury and they hand-crafted the latest fashions with the help of a sewing machine - thankfully, ra-ra skirts were in fashion that year. Neither of them even had the opportunity of further education, let alone a graduate job. The main difference between their generation and ours? Technology.

We live in a media-centred society. When house prices go up, the press take to scaremongering young people that they’ll never have their foot on the ladder. Rolling news of young celebrities in crisis taking drugs are featured regularly. Social media is the worst culprit. Holiday pictures paraded on Instagram, Facebook statuses depicting new job opportunities, exam results posted up for everyone to see. This is an unhealthy glimpse into everyone else’s lives and a terrible temptation to compare your life to others.

Taylor knows what its like to be 22. Sort of.

I’m not suggesting we go back to the good old days. Instead, I think it is time to appreciate just how far we have come. Whilst we don’t have it all, we have much more freedom and choice than those of previous generations. However, with wider choice comes wider ambition. Perfect house, perfect relationship and perfect job all by the time we are thirty? It just isn't possible.

Ultimately, our lives haven’t changed. Being in your twenties is still a time of being unsettled and attempting to find yourself in the world. You will make some terrible relationship choices, some wrong job choices, even some questionable outfit choices. It will be a struggle. However, every small victory- be it your first car (paid for with your own hard-earned cash), your first door key (rented or otherwise) or that first big career break will feel even better knowing you have truly worked for it. Honestly? Pour yourself a large glass of wine and give yourself a break - your twenties will be over before you know it.

The Sunday Review

I seem to be so busy right now without a moment to spare. Last Friday I managed to grab a quiet Friday evening with one of my best friends - plenty of pampering, films, magazines, pink cupcakes and delicious home-made Green Tea Mojitos. I've spent this weekend scouring the shops for presents for my Mum's 60th birthday as well as booking three amazing holidays. We'll be off to Rome for five days in September, followed by a long weekend in Bruges come Christmas and most importantly, two weeks in Disneyworld next April. Yes, that's right. I'm going to meet Mickey Mouse in the Sunshine State! Excited doesn't quite cover it.

My week in instagram. 

(L-R: A beautiful commute to work, Lucy's cupcakes, Revlon's lip crayons, Green tea Mojitos, Rapunzel & Sleeping Beauty on my desk at work...)

I have been listening to...Kings of Leon's Mechanical Bull. 

When this album came out in September of last year, I heard nothing but poor reviews. Despite my love of the band, I was a bit put off and didn't bother purchasing. Fast forward nearly a year and I've found myself humming along to a lot of the released singles. I love listening to this at work - its the perfect combination of meaningful slow numbers and up-beat rock tunes to keep me motivated through the afternoon.

I have been watching...New Girl. I'm pretty pleased that the new series of New Girl is finally being aired. I did miss my weekly Tuesday Zooey Deschanel fix!

I have been reading...The Husband's Secret by Liane Moriarty. In short, this book was brilliant. I loved the intricacy of the individual stories, the development of characters and the wonderful twists and turns. A must-read for anyone who loves a thriller. 

I have been lusting after...Fearne Cotton's beautiful wedding dress. 

I know Fearne is a bit of a Marmite character, but I've always been a big fan of her sense of style. How beautiful does she look in this wonderful Pucci dress? 

That's all for this week. I'll be in my duvet trying to avoid Wimbledon on telly! Enjoy! 

The Fault in Our Stars: Book Review

"Sometimes, you read a book and it fills you with this weird evangelical zeal, and you become convinced that the shattered world will never be put back together again unless all living humans read the book."

-John Green

As you well know, I'm a sucker for a good book. The Fault in Our Stars was recommended to me by many but remained on my Kindle 'to-read' list for a good while before I got around to reading it. 

The premise of the story is a gloomy one. Hazel, a self-titled unextraordinary individual meets an attractive stranger at a support group intended for teenagers struggling with cancer. The attractive stranger is seventeen year old Augustus Waters, in remission from cancer and assisting his friend Isaac in coming to terms with eye cancer. He buys cigarettes but doesn't smoke them, purely for the metaphorical value. Their spontaneous meeting results in them both agreeing to read each other's favourite novels and so a love story ensues. So far, so cheesy?

Whilst it sounds like a slushy teen romance novel, the book is more substantial than that. The characters of Hazel and Augustus are so well developed and multidimensional that you cannot help but become drawn into their story. In addition, the subject matter is handled well and with good humour. Rather than venturing into the realms of misery literature, it gives a real perspective on what it means to be someone who is battling cancer. What I loved most about the novel was it's ability to be romantic without romanticising their situation. Very real and sometimes graphic, it shows that the romance lies in Augustus and Hazel's relationship with one another rather than the tragedy of circumstance. 

I don't want to say too much about the book as I don't want to give too much away. It is definitely one to read all at once, perhaps in an afternoon, as it was sometimes difficult to put down. Give it a read and you'll see exactly what I mean.

Les Miserables- Film Review

An avid musical fan, I was a little overexcited when it was announced that a film version of Les Miserables would be produced, with release for 2013. Having seen the show in the West End a number of years ago as an impressionable and sensitive fifteen year old, I was looking forward to seeing how Tom Hooper's version would pan out. Thankfully, I wasn't disappointed.

For those who aren't familiar with the story, it follows the life of a man called Jean Valjean in the midst of the French Revolution. After serving a number of years as a slave for stealing a loaf of bread, he is granted parole. Craving escape, he begins a life on the run and years later, appears again as the mayor of a small French town. It is here that he encounters young Fantine, played brilliantly by Anne Hathaway, a girl working at the local factory with an illegitimate child to support. Forced into prostitution, Valjean finds Fantine desperate, alone and dying. As she dies, he vows to take care of her child and begins another life on the run.

It is here that we are introduced to a whole host of characters at the heart of the French revolution. With talented newcomer Samantha Barks playing Eponine and Eddie Redmayne as young rebel Marius, the film becomes a dramatic portrayal of young people rebelling against the ideas that have been forced upon them. Combine this with themes of loss and love as well as a lot of singing, and well, you get the gist.

Overall, I was impressed with the production of the film. The cinematography is wonderful, especially when seen on the big screen, and the settings were chosen beautifully. Hugh Jackman was an unexpected surprise and gave a fantastic performance whilst Anne Hathaway's rendition of 'I Dreamed a dream' was enough to evoke emotion from even the hardest of hearts. Helena Bonham-Carter and Sacha-Baren-Cohen gave a little light-relief in their comical performance as the Thenardiers, generally playing to type and doing what they do best. The most disappointing casting of the film, however, was Amanda Seyfried as Cosette. Weak and girly, her performance was reminiscent of every other film she'd ever done- particularly Mama Mia! and left me feeling very disinterested in her as a character.

Les Miserables is definitely a film to catch whilst it is in the cinema. Whilst it perhaps isn't the best film for those with short attention spans (with a running time of two and a half hours long), it is an epic story backed by a wonderful cast and wonderful songs. I even went so far to purchase the soundtrack. If you're not a musical fan, do however, check out the 1998 film version of the same name, with Liam Neeson as Jean Valjean. Little known, but equally as fantastic.

Fifty Shades of Feminism

Daytime telly is a vice of mine. Currently in-between jobs, I have fallen into the trap of a lack of routine and my days are now filled with job applications, going to the gym and composing tweets about wanting to steal Holly Willoughby’s wardrobe. Still, whilst most daytime telly is mundane and brainless (read: Jeremy Kyle), I am clearly interested in anything that promotes debate. Today’s dose of This Morning featured a debate on popular erotic novel Fifty Shades of Grey, with Samantha Brick arguing that the book should be regarded the same way as most pornography- (ie: keeping it stocked on the top shelf rather than next to the latest biopic featuring Peppa Pig.) Erotic writer Emily Dubberley took an opposing argument, stating how many women have been enticed by the trilogy since its launch and basically brandishing it as a bit of fun.

Admittedly, I have not read Fifty Shades of Grey and therefore cannot really comment on the book itself. The plot is fairly original it would seem- a virgin graduate embarking upon an affair with a manipulative billionaire who has a penchant for bondage, domination and sadism. So far, so creepy.  As someone who composed a dissertation chapter on violence in Angela Carter’s modern fairytales, it sounds to be almost like a re-telling of her version of The Bloody Chamber with some light pornography for good measure. Perhaps this is just my inner Literature student eager to analyse and I should shut up and get on the Erotic- lit bandwagon. Still, I am increasingly put off in reading the book- be it from excerpts, the ongoing comparison to fantasy series Twilight, or the warnings from friends of the apparently appalling writing. Still, rather than a potentially damaging sex manual, Fifty Shades of Grey sounds to me like a light-hearted and fun way to spend a rainy afternoon. Surely women (or men) reading this book will be aware that it is a fantasy? Surely they will know that they still have the choice to mould and shape their own sexuality rather than be dictated to by fiction? Surely they are simply not that ignorant? Oh, but Samantha Brick doesn’t think so.

‘Degrading to women’ was the phrase that Brick used carelessly in her argument, perhaps unaware that she was making a very bold statement indeed. I scoffed into my cornflakes in disbelief. This is the woman that declared just a few months ago that ‘women hate me because I’m beautiful.’ In a double page spread in the Daily Mail, she harped on about her ‘perfect features’ and how her friends had dropped her ‘in fear that their husbands fancied me.’ Her article was a poisonous and arrogant rant about how what she considered to be her own pleasing appearance had an awful effect on her life- leaving her with no friends and jealous women at every corner. As I have said before, the ‘sisterhood’ she talks about is non-existent in her world. In fact, by labeling every woman in England as unattractive and jealous, she has degraded women more than Fifty Shades of Grey ever could. 

Have you read Fifty Shades of Grey and agree with Samantha Brick's argument? Do you think erotic fiction empowers or degrades women? 

Electra Heart- Marina and the Diamonds

As far as feminist heroines go, I have a long list of women I admire. Sylvia Plath, the late Amy Winehouse, feminist writer Caitlin Moran and Patsy Stone from Absolutely Fabulous to name but a few. This week, I have a new favourite. I was first introduced to Marina Diamandis around four years ago through the old social networking site Myspace. The welsh songstress with raven hair and distinctive voice captured the attention of many with original tracks such as I am not a robot and Mowgli's Road. She went on to release her debut album The Family Jewels two years later, peaking at number five on the UK albums chart in the week of it's release.

Marina's second album entitled Electra Heart was long awaited. She hinted in an interview in 2011 that it would be about female sexuality and feminism. Her previous album, although far more implicit in it's themes, spoke mainly about Marina's rejection of celebrity culture. I am not a robot was about the pressure of women in an industry obsessed with image whilst chart-topping Hollywood allowed Marina to share her controversial views about 'puking american dreams' and how Hollywood had 'infected her brain.' Surely, Electra Heart was going to break a few barriers and contain more of Marina's outspoken opinions?

It certainly doesn't disappoint. The album itself was inspired by Marilyn Monroe and Madonna, with a hint of Americana and essence of bubblegum 90's pop. This is more apparent than ever in first track Bubblegum Bitch- an infectious pop tune that I've put on repeat and put odds on being a massive chart hit. The likes of Prima donna, Homewrecker and Radioactive are similarly catchy- the kind of songs you can't help but dance in the mirror to whilst there are also softer sounds such as Lies and The State of Dreaming. 


I recently read a review of the album from NME in which they were fairly scathing of the album. In true indie hipster style, they seemed to be implying that once girl-next-door Marina Diamandis had truly sold out, totally oblivious of the fact that they were missing the point. Electra Heart isn't just an album. She is an alter-ego for Marina, dressed up in babydoll dresses, fake eyelashes and bottle-blonde hair. Electra Heart is a way  for her to satirically express the way she feels about the importance of image in our society as well as a comment on the faceless people that become celebrities for no other reason than their appearance. As well as this, it is, as Marina claims herself, 'an ode to dysfunctional love.' Reminiscient of the Hollywood gossip culture of the 1930's and 40's, Electra Heart's character is cold and hard with a resistance to being seen as vulnerable. This is not Marina's sell-out album, this is Marina's comment on her resistance to sell out and her unwillingness to be just another pop puppet. A definite listen for anyone who can maintain an open mind. 

Nobody's Perfect- and that includes Jessie J

As an unashamed X Factor fan, I was apprehensive about BBC's new talent show The Voice. It was the unique format, however, that enticed me to watch the first episode. I've since found myself watching it every Saturday night for the last three weeks- perhaps an indication of the exciting life I lead as an intern living with her parents! Whilst the show itself is unique and sometimes reveals some great singing talent, there is one thing I cannot stand. That 'thing' is Jessie J.

Her dip-dyed purple hair, her loud clashing shirts and more importantly, her arrogance- they all grate on me. Tipped as the top music act for 2011, she arrived on the scene with attitude, singing about how she could 'do it like a dude' whilst wearing leather leggings and swinging her impossibly small hips. She was fresh, she had an edge- every pop cliche you could imagine was used alongside her name. She spoke in a cockney drawl and exuded confidence, making everyone aware that she was from the 'street', not a pop puppet from theatre school. Granted, she was a Brit school graduate- but didn't that make her even cooler? I mean, come on- this girl had rubbed shoulders with Adele before she was even famous.

The thing is, fame does things to a person. Whilst Jessie looked cool last year when she was singing on about how it most definitely wasn't about the 'money money money', she was actually earning quite a lot of it not to care. Soon enough, the once outspoken but likeable Jessie got a bit big for her boots. With her mantelpiece now displaying numerous awards from the likes of The Brits and MOBOs, Jessie started to believe her own hype and became a right royal pain in the arse.

 Choosing to accept the offer of being a coach on The Voice is easily the worst decision Jessie could have made. Unfortunately for her, being sandwiched between a music producer such as Will.i.am and the legend that is Tom Jones (we won't mention Danny for obvious reasons) is not doing her any favours whatsoever. Throw in the fact that Jessie is still only 23 years old and appears to have only been around for five minutes, and you can see why her credibility is flailing. The stupid expressions, attempts at witty remarks and arrogant demeanour are doing nothing for her career and go against her 'down to earth' persona that her fans originally warmed to.

As long as I'm skint and living in a house in the middle of nowhere, I'm sure I'll be sticking with The Voice. With any luck, Jessie will stop the name-dropping, silly faces and embarrassing attempts at humour and in weeks to come, we might see a whole different side to her. If she doesn't pipe down and chill out soon, I'm sure she'll be saying goodbye to her pop career for good.

The ugly face of Beauty: Samantha Brick

I'll go ahead and say it. I was an ugly child. I improved a little, as you can see- still a bit rough around the edges and carrying a few extra pounds I'm desperately trying to shift- but a vast improvement on my teenage self. If I'm honest, my own appearance has always been something that consumes me- I think, however, that this is true of most women. If we're not tanning ourselves, crash dieting and moaning about the size of our calves, we're taking more serious measures in the form of plastic surgery or gastric bands. Admittedly, the media's portrayal of celebrities has a lot to do with it. Has anyone ever noticed that newspapers such as The Daily Mail and The Sun describe women more often that not by their dress sizes? Usually regardless of what the article is about. With celebrities plastered on the front of magazines, slated for being 'too fat' or 'too skinny', it is clear that a woman's appearance has never been more discussed.

Which is why I was shocked on Monday morning to be faced with this article. Entitled 'Why women hate me because I'm beautiful', the sensationalist headline spoke for itself. Written by Daily Mail journalist Samantha Brick, the article read like a life story one might find in the 'Tragic lives' section of WHSmith. Only Samantha wasn't claiming to be psychically abused or reviled, instead she was expressing her heartache at what she considered to be her 'pleasing appearance' and how this had affected her life- i.e: it had caused her no end of hardship.

Inexplicably, this woman seemed to think that it was her 'attractive' appearance that led her to have little or no friends, rather than her unpleasant manner and shocking arrogance. It is not surprising that the feature was inundated with comments- most harshly directed at her- and that even twenty-four hours later, her name is still trending on Twitter. Even celebrities and well-known names have directed their anger at her- with Lauren Laverne tweeting ' Why do people WRITE articles like this?'  and Derren Brown stating that 'I wish I had such an inflated view of my looks!' 

I think it is fair to say that British women are notoriously self-deprecating. Tell the most beautiful woman in the world what she really looks like and she'll refuse to take the compliment, muttering away about her imperfect thighs or the fact her eyelashes are shorter than she'd like. From this angle, it could be thought that Samantha Brick's perception on her own appearance is refreshingly positive. She works out, looks after her body and is confident in herself. However, whilst confidence is attractive in anyone- arrogance is not. Whilst Samantha is entirely obsessed with her own appearance, she seems to have a very low opinion of others. Yes, she is delusional (for someone claiming to be the most beautiful woman in the world she leaves a lot to be desired), but that is by the by. What is really important is that the 'sisterhood' that she so frequently rants on about is almost non-existent in her world. Because she doesn't behave in a sisterly manner whatsoever. Perhaps instead of harping on about her perfect appearance, she ought to gain a sense of perspective and become a little more down-to-earth. If she's lucky, she might even gain herself some friends. 

The Hunger Games

As always, another busy week. Last week, among the usual gym sessions and driving lessons, I managed to fit in a date night with Liam. Starting off with a (ridiculously indulgent) meal at TGI Fridays, we went on to see the most talked-about film of the moment, The Hunger Games.

If I was one to believe what I read, it was apparent that The Hunger Games was a film targeted mainly at angst- ridden teenagers and the film itself had even been brandished with the label 'the new Twilight.' This description very nearly put me off- mainly due to my hatred of anything Twilight based.  It was only after reading this article in The Daily Mail that I realised I wouldn't be seeing a children's film and that perhaps it really was as gritty as the trailer had promised.

Frankly, I wasn't disappointed. My favourite thing about The Hunger Games? Katniss Everdeen. Surely there is nothing better than a powerful female heroine- and Katniss, played brilliantly by Jennifer Lawrence, had attitude in bucket loads. I found the premise of the film very interesting. Set in a post-apocalyptic future, it explored the possibility of what could happen in society if it was allowed to decline. The fictional nation of Panem, comprised of the wealthy capitol and the surrounding twelve districts, is an eerie and disturbing new world. As punishment for a rebellion against the government, the capitol has initiated The Hunger Games- a televised event in which two young people- a boy and girl- compete to fight to the death in an arena until there is one remaining victor. So far, so violent.

The film follows Katniss as she fights in the Hunger Games- running around in tight black lycra and making brooding stares at the camera. Tortured with fire, killer bees and the threat of the other contestants- Katniss is followed as she struggles to stay alive- whilst managing to keep her hair and make-up unrealistically perfect throughout. It's safe to say that my fourteen year old self was resurfacing the more I watched.

In many ways, The Hunger Games is just a very enjoyable futuristic adventure- and enjoy it I certainly did. For me, there was something reminiscent of dark and gritty television dramas, such as Charlie Brooker's Black Mirror and Liam was sure it reminded him of films from the 1980's- perhaps the camp outfits and over-dramatic performances weren't dissimilar to the old Tim Burton films. There have been good and bad reviews of The Hunger Games- and there seems to be a general consensus that it simply wasn't as good as anticipated. My opinion? It isn't very often I watch a film lasting nearly two and a half hours without looking at a clock. This one kept me captivated, entertained and longing for more- and I didn't check my watch once.

Lust list

Admittedly, it has been a while since I have posted. With a recent holiday to Lanzarote and my new role as Junior Account Executive at Spink as well as a stint at the OTC Marketing awards, I have had my hands full. Things continue to move fast, too. I'm learning new things each day in my new job and next Thursday, I'll be having my first ever driving lesson. Wish me luck! For now, here is this week's lust list.

These birthstone rings from Pandora are gorgeous. I'm actually a May baby, which makes my birthstone Emerald, but I'm loving the pearl and sapphire rings. Simply gorgeous.

I recently read The Reader by Bernard Schlink on holiday and I was really inspired by it. I am always interested in literature depicting the holocaust, and this book is a truly original story. I can't reveal too much, but if you haven't yet read it, do give it a try. I promise you will be enthralled. 

I am absolutely loving BBC's new drama White Heat. The series features a group of housemates from the 1960's through to the present day and the issues they face. The second episode entitled 'Eve of Destruction' set in 1967 was brilliant, and the young cast are exceptional. For me, it isn't dissimilar to the 1996 BBC drama Our Friends in the North. If you, like me, were far too young to remember it when it originally aired, be sure to nab it on box set. Compulsive viewing. 

I'm not usually a great fan of modern music, but one song that has continually been on the radio this week is Somebody I used to know by Gotye. Fantastically catchy, it strikes the balance between infectious pop and hip indie sound. I might even check out his album.

If I ever manage to have enough money to treat myself to something wonderful, I'm sure one of the first things I'll do is go out and buy a Mulberry bag. I was very excited when I saw this gorgeous edition, entitled the Del Rey. Available in an array of colours, my favourite is this Deer Brown leather. Named after the one and only Lana Del Rey, this beautiful bag is launched in May. Just in time for my 22nd birthday. Not that I'm hinting, of course.

I'm always on the hunt for the perfect red suede boots and I'm pretty positive this ASOS pair fit the bill. I can just imagine pairing these with a pair of jeggings or a pretty floral dress for spring. If anyone has a spare £45 hanging around, feel free. Wouldn't they be fantastic with the Mulberry bag?

That's it for this week's Lust list. Until next week!

Loose lips

One of the main features of being unemployed is the large proportion of your day that is filled with daytime telly. Some of it is good- who doesn’t want to watch rich cretins trying to buy a house on a limited budget or Phillip Schofield interview a transgendered murderer? Whilst these shows are usually given a bad name, they certainly fit under the ‘entertainment’ umbrella. Some daytime telly, however, simply drives me mad.

It isn’t surprising that at half past twelve every day; many people switch off their televisions. Yes, I’m talking about Loose Women. For those who aren’t aware of this programme, where have you been? Ultimately, it is an hour-long soapbox for opinionated and misinformed women, sandwiched between half-hearted interviews with old eighties pop stars and cast members of The Only Way is Essex. Reminiscent of a middle class coffee morning, these women like to discuss anything from benefit cheats to weight loss, putting their own spin on issues that they clearly know nothing about.

A few weeks ago, I watched an episode for which their chosen topic was about the importance of marriage. One of the women, the occasionally sensible Lisa Maxwell, is unmarried with children and has been with her partner for fifteen years. Cue: the other panellists harping on about why she should tie the knot as swiftly as possible. Janet Street Porter is very much concerned about the sanctity of marriage. Shouldn’t children be bought up in a solid relationship consisting of man and woman? She says, forgetting her own four divorces. It isn’t long before Carol Vorderman pipes up about the legal ramifications of not being married. It seems to have slipped her mind she has also been divorced twice.  Do I sense a pattern here? Of Course, it wasn’t too long until Andrea McLean and Denise Welch’s faces were splashed all over the gossip magazines with their stories of divorce too. It’s the new getting married, don’t you know?! Any excuse for a party.

The point is, the Loose Women give feminism a bad name. I’m all for sisterhood and waving your arms in the air shouting about how free you are, but these women seem to want to attack anyone and anything with male genitalia. Utterly shameless about airing their dirty linen in public, they feel the need to share everything about their male partners- from cheap innuendos about their sex life to how much body hair they have. Perhaps it’s time to shove five men on a panel show so they can talk about the women in their lives with such disregard? Somehow, I think there would be uproar. 

Labels are for Jars

I’m going to be honest now. I have never understood fashion labels. For me, labels are for food items and corrosive materials. They’re useful in telling me what is in that suspicious looking container as well as informing me what flavour jam I might have purchased. Of course, my clothes do come with labels. I’m not a freak. Only, these labels usually tell me what size I am and have tiny little symbols on them which are apparently supposed to enlighten me on how they should be washed. Fashion labels, however, are a whole different ball game. A ball game I choose not to participate in. (I never was one for sport) These kinds of labels are for skinny Minnies who know what variety of legging is in this season and can afford to treat Topshop like a thrift store.

Last week, H&M launched their Versace Cruise Collection. Described lazily as ‘classically Versace’ (well, obviously), it was revealed that the collection would feature a range of items, from cardigans to ballet shoes. In the anticipation of release, Fashionistas everywhere waited with baited breath. What would these fashion masterpieces look like? 

They looked awful. Yes, what wasn’t revealed is that all of these items would be ostensibly made from the same horrific material, adorned with berries and butterflies and other stereotypically twee embellishments. Having seemingly hired Maria Von Trapp as a designer, the pieces look like they were made out of curtains only deemed fashionable in Austria in the Second World War. Perhaps not the look they were aiming for.  Still, the clothing flew off the virtual shelves! On the day of release, the H&M website actually crashed with the sheer amount of Versace grabbing and it wasn’t long before everything had a whacking great Sold Out sign upon it.

It still baffles me. Fashion labels do not make women happy. They think they need those Jimmy Choos and Prada jeans to make them happy, but much of this is due to the cruelty of marketing. Nice shoes don’t get you Nobel peace prizes and cures for cancer. If anything, they make you walk funny and hide in your wardrobe for years on end because you can’t bear the pain of wearing them again. In times of economic recession, how can I justify paying sixty five pounds for a vest purely because it was designed by someone whose name I can’t even pronounce?

My advice is to simply lie. Put together a little outfit by Primark, accessorise with household items and pretend your new ensemble is a Gucci creation. If you like, you can even write ‘Gucci’ on the label for complete authenticity. No doubt you’ll look like you’ve just stepped off the catwalk at Milan. Take that, fashion!

Take me out (and shoot me)

It was an unwelcome and peculiar moment when I switched on to ITV last Saturday evening. Usually, I’d expect to be greeted with a old repeat of You’ve Been Framed or one of those quirky new game shows hosted by Davina McCall that involves running through different rooms whilst having fifty pound notes stuffed in various body orifices. Instead, I was faced with a man from Bolton, what looked like a handful of transvestites and a programme that I can only describe as an amalgamation of Blind Date and The Only Way is Essex. I know, I know. I’m incredibly late jumping on the bandwagon. One of the biggest game shows of last year, Take Me Out regularly reached 5 million viewers and became the twitter trend of Saturday nights. So am I wrong in saying that I just don’t get it?

In my very humble opinion, this show is less like car crash telly and more like a pile up on the M6. Some of the ‘women’ could easily audition for a stint in The Ladyboys of Bankok and the men seem to lack both personality and brains.(Hardly a winning combination.) The premise of the show is that one single man, usually still living with his Mum, has to try and impress thirty single women. Each woman has a light which she can turn off if she is unimpressed by the man (and then curse herself when she later finds out he’s the son of a millionaire.) So far, so awful.

If that wasn’t bad enough, Patrick ‘I used to be funny’ McGuiness attempts to enhance the experience with his own kooky use of vocabulary. ‘Let the shepherds see the pie!’ he yells, grinning like he’s mentally ill. ‘Let the belly see the button!’ Let the onion see the bhaji!’ ‘Let the plum see the jam!’ BY GOD, PADDY, WE GET THE POINT. Whilst those with an average IQ of 12 might think that shouting ‘No likey, no lighty’ is part of some incredibly witty dialogue, I’m not impressed. You came up with something that rhymes, Paddy? Congratulations. I’m sure there are toddlers out there who have been more creative with language.

As well as the fact that this ‘entertainment’ programme is utter drivel, it clearly isn’t doing anything for feminism either. A gaggle of desperate women fluttering their false eyelashes in order to get picked for a date? I bet Emmeline Pankhurst is spinning furiously in her grave at this shambles! And wait, there’s more. Whilst the male’s application form invites them to reveal their educational qualifications, the female’s simply asks whether they have any ‘special talents’ they would like to share. You know, like the ability to be able to roll your tongue or look good in a bikini. A programme consisting of cheap gags, arrogant men and blatant sexism? Needless to say, for me it’s more of a case of no likey, no watchy.

January blues are mandatory

Oh, January. You are so very unkind to us. This week is the first week back at work for most. We are fatter, poorer and experiencing what seems to be some sort of Wizard of Oz style hurricane in the south east of England. The Christmas lights that once welcomed us through the streets are rain swept, clinging on to buildings, endless and sad reminders of the fun we once had. Our resolutions to quit smoking and eating bread have fallen by the wayside and we’re beginning to hope that Spring will come earlier this year.

Still, we are bombarded with advertisements for how to reduce our waistlines and unrealistic celebrity exercise videos from women who have no bums. Rail fares have increased too, of course. Let us not forget that. Even the daily hassle of getting to work is costing us more and we’re suddenly sacrificing our prêt a manger sandwiches for the unrivalled joy of a delayed train filled with sweaty strangers.

And then there is the small matter of me being jobless. Again. Yes, 25% of graduates are unemployed and I’m back to being one of them. The news was broken to me earlier this week in a cold conference room that much resembles the setting of the 2001 film ‘Conspiracy’, in which it depicts a dramatic recreation of the Wannsee conference in Nazi Germany. Only this room was in a seaside town and no-one was wearing uniform.

Ok, so I’m being overdramatic. Having done the hard slog of actual grown-up work for three months, I thought that at the end of it I might be lucky enough to gain a permanent position. Nice try, no cigar. I was marched out like an X-Factor evictee, disappointed that I would never get to sing a cover of Snow Patrol’s ‘Chasing cars’ in the final show, accompanied by a black and white photo montage of my career-seeking journey.

It turns out that unemployment is much like meeting an old friend. It hasn’t taken me long to get used to it again. Indeed, it is much like we never parted. There are some things that haven’t changed whatsoever. There is the familiar tune of Vivaldi’s ‘Spring’ when put on hold to the job centre plus. The usual ensemble of greying pyjamas and blanket with sleeves, accessorised with a blank stare and twitch of the eyebrow. Most importantly there is the welcoming smile of Phillip Schofield and Holly Willoughby at ten thirty each morning. Things could be a hell of a lot worse.

The rise of the Facebook 'relationship' police

Picture the scene, if you will. Not dissimilar from what I imagine a low-rent version of Sex and The City to be like (albeit with less sex and set in a crumbling town in the South East of England.) There are five girls drinking pretentiously-priced cocktails and droning on about reality television, diet regimes and their favourite subject: men. This is of course, entirely stereotypical. They probably buy their tan in bottles and their meals from Pret A Manger. For those of you unfamiliar with this situation, this is a chance for these women to either slate their partner to high heaven: “He wears WHITE shoes For God’s sake! Who wears WHITE shoes?” or indeed, brag about just how fantastic they are. It involves a lot of patience and waiting your turn, usually a copious amount of alcohol and cake and the excessive use of those four words: “You can do better.”

This session is like no other. It is filled with gushes of “Oh but he is so gorgeous!” and “Tom bought me a DINOSAUR for my birthday!” When the metaphorical relationship baton is passed around the table to my friend Amy, she remains casual and tells us that yes, she has finally found someone, and no, this one doesn’t share similar facial features to Frodo Baggins. There are knowing smiles and a mixture of girlish excitement until one announces:

“But it’s not Facebook official!”

Of course. Facebook. The all-seeing and all-knowing virtual God of the web. The very reason we are alive.  Apparently, everyone knows it isn’t a real relationship until it has been spread across a web page for your 1,127 ‘friends’ to see (including your mum’s best friend and that girl from work’s hamster.) Surely this is added pressure upon a new couple? Surely someone should be penning a book on Facebook etiquette. Do you rush home and load up your PC as soon as she’s dropped her knickers? (“sorry love, just got to change my status…”) Must you wait until you’ve met her parents, held her hair back whilst she is sick and discussed the 12 children you’re having?

As with any affair, not all last forever. This fallout must be considered in the virtual world. Nothing makes me more depressed than logging on my page to be faced with an acquaintance as ‘no longer in a relationship.’ How subtle that they choose to adorn this announcement with a broken heart, a visual indication of the poor bastard is feeling. Beneath the message of sorrow are endless comments of mourning and condolence lacking sentiment: ‘Hope ur ok babez’, that whilst making them regret the initial decision to even change their status, gives them all the comfort of wanting to stab themselves in the eye with a rusty nail.

Equally as annoying are the attention seekers. Everyone has one on their news feed. That couple that decide that ‘it’s complicated’ is a necessary status after every petty argument. Let’s be honest, now. It isn’t complicated. It’s quite simple, really. Either go your separate ways or refrain from displaying your life on a social networking site. Now, please stop clogging up my news-feed, or I’ll have to be using those three highly unromantic little words: ‘Remove. As. Friend.’

Hip to be square

It’s official. Being ‘uncool’ is the new cool. Confused? So am I. It all started last week when my best friend casually announced “I’ve done it. I’ve bought a thermal vest.” For her, she was merely stating how she’d spent her weekend. For me, it was much like the beginning of an AA meeting. My initial reaction was one of utter disgust. At the spritely age of twenty-two, surely the only underwear she need purchase are lacy unmentionables from trendy high-street stores. You know, those knickers that are horrifically uncomfortable in a seated position but claim to make you look like Megan Fox’s body double. It was this outspoken confession that made me realise, it’s hip to be square.

Yes, we twentysomethings are giving up excessive vodka consumption and careless promiscuity in favour of knitting patterns and cups of English breakfast tea. I kid you not. Old-fashioned hobbies such as baking cupcakes, sewing and even scrapbooking have made a serious comeback in recent years. Whether it’s the faltering economy or the increase in popularity for everything vintage, women are heading back to the 1950’s by customising their own clothes and baking their own cupcakes instead of buying them. We’re replacing nights out of debauchery for sensible nights in, whilst taking hair and make-up tips from our Nan.

Fashion has also taken note. It appears that wearing loafers and geek glasses is apparently now a sign of being fashion conscious, instead of a reason to get bullied at school. Just ask Mark Ronson. A few years ago, ex-spice girl Victoria Beckham was seen buying a cocktail dress in the Notting Hill branch of Oxfam. Instantly, the British media went into a frenzy. Oxfam was declared fashionable, and sales went through the roof. Previously associated with moth eaten nightshirts and dead people, the humble charity shop was now considered the place to be.

Nights out have also become retro, with many bright young things favouring the bingo hall or bowling alley over a banging nightclub. Edgy new venues such as London’s Shake, Rattle and Bowl provides a great mix of jive dancing, Diner and tenpin bowling for those that like a bit of harmless fun. I was recently informed by a colleague that a night down the Gala was also one hell of a thrill, and I must agree. The sheer anticipation of the numbers as they are called, coupled with the adrenaline and excitement of yelling ‘HOUSE!’ For me, its enough to rival an underground venue playing awful drum and bass and selling spirits for ridiculous prices. I admit it. I’m probably the squarest of them all. Oh, and number one on my Christmas list? You’ve guessed it. Thermal vest.

Are we wising up to the crying game?

The sob story. It is a modern phenomenon. Honestly, ask anyone over the age of forty five and they’ll tell you that no-one did as much bellyaching in the good old days as they do now. The British, of course, were famous for their stiff upper lip and keep calm, carry on attitude. Back in wartime, a strong cup of tea and a hot bath was known to cure almost anything. It seems however, that this is no longer the case. If we’re not moaning on about our dodgy internet connection or dwindling bank balances, we’re complaining about the slow service in restaurants or the price of milk. Of course, no-one remembers rationing. 
And then there’s the crying. Public displays of emotion can now been seen everywhere. ‘Reality’ (ahem) shows are the worst culprits. If I’m not seeing a grown man bawl his eyes out after a spot of ballroom dancing, I’m subjected to the tears of a brainless woman on a cookery show whose macaroons have failed.  X Factor is of course, the guiltiest of them all. There isn’t a weekend that goes by that isn’t filled with the tears of hopeful contestants droning on and on about their ‘dream’, accompanied by an obligatory Adele song in the background. A prime example is that of  Soldier boy Jonjo, otherwise known as ‘that bloke with a hat.’ The guy is emotional gold for the X Factor team! Fought in Afghanistan? Check. The father of small children? Check. Singing a tear-inducing version of a Stereophonics song? Check. Except, whilst the frankly disturbing image of him wailing into his trilby won him a place in the live shows with Louis, the general public couldn’t be fooled. Moaning of the false nature of the show, they became wise once again to the power of the sob story and booted him from X Factor last Sunday.
It isn’t just reality television shows, either. Things became ridiculous when just the other week, I watched daytime favourite This Morning, only to be greeted with Holly Willougby blubbing through an interview with Sesame Street’s Elmo. Get a grip woman, I longed to scream! It’s a bloody puppet! Others noticed the newly overemotional Holly, too. I logged into my Facebook page, faced with a status update from a friend: “I know Holly Willoughby has just had a baby, but she needs to man-up and stop crying.” Ashamedly, I swiftly clicked the ‘like’ button.
Whilst we British have become those that wallow in misery, we also realise that the sentiment presented to us by the media is very often a false one. I, like many others like to have a quick browse through the Tragic Lives section in WHSmith. Books, stacked on top of one another with generic title such as ‘Please Daddy, not again!’ and ‘Special.’ Enlightening stuff. Whether it’s the shock factor or the blatent morbid thrill, these books are selling as fast as they can be written. Need I say more?
What do you think? Should everyone stop moaning and get on with it, or have things changed for the better?