Ok, that is IT. What is happening to the trousers of today?! I’ve just been to town in search of jeans and have returned both emotionally and physically damaged. I’m not searching for anything in particular. No specific format. Just a nice jean, that befits a woman in her late 20’s, who goes to the office, but then hey let’s face it, who also likes to have some fun and I am sorry, but it seems that a woman like me (normal build and detectable brain activity) is simply no longer catered for on the trouser scene of today.
If aliens landed on Earth in the middle of the night, broke into Topshop using their advanced breaking in tools and began looking for clues, I am sure that after a few hours spent spindling their long, green fingers through the rails of clothes, they would report back to the mother ship that women on Earth are quite clearly a little bit mental in the legs department. 'Your majesty, we are no further forward in discovering how many legs they have and we'd respectfully like to abort this mission.'
Let's just look at jeans for example. If you want to buy jeans today, you can’t just buy them, you have to first decide what type of statement these jeans will make for you and this statement can no longer be ‘I want to drop my dinner on these and be able sponge it off with a flannel’. No. Things have changed. The choices are now as follows: Bootcut Jeans. These are for women who want to say ‘I’m going to work now, but then I could go for a drink after if you want? I’m tall and I’m adaptable to any situation’. But beware ladies. For bootcut jeans must always be purchased just slightly too long for the leg. If you buy your bootcut jeans in the correct size, the bottoms will swing above your ankle and will make you look like an ankle-swinger and bloody fool. If you go for bootcut, you've got to go long.
Then there are Flares. Flares are nothing new of course. But today they are still an option for the average jean buyer. If you do make the choice for flares, you will look unusual, so bear this in mind before you purchase. When you’re standing at the Sainsbury’s checkout and the person behind you scans their eyes across the contents of your trolley and then down to your flares, what will they think? They’ll think you’re deranged is what they’ll think. Their eyes will flick back to the trolley and quickly re-examine for excessive tins of cat food. Either that or they’ll think you’re off to a fancy dress and haven’t made much effort. Let’s face it, flares make you look weird and there’s no excuse for them. Pack it in flare wearers please. It’s over.
Next, there’s the inexplicable Skinny jeans phenomena. Whoever’s idea this was should be buried under a crushing pile of denim and left there. There is nothing at all good about skinny jeans and no good can come from buying them. If you do make the mistake of buying them, you can’t even get them on and you certainly won't be able to get them off so make sure you pick a pair you're prepared to wear for a while. They cut off your circulation and they make you look like an utter prat if you’re not more that seven foot tall, which you’re not. There are racks and racks of them in every shop. Thousands of weedy little leg- torture-tubes. Women who buy these jeans are trying to be fashionable. They are victims of fashion and granted, in a moment of weakness you’ve probably selected a pair to try on yourself. You’ve eyed the dangling leg-tubes and thought, ‘can I cram my legs into those?’ and then you’ve decided ‘YES. I can give it a bloody good go’ and marched towards the dressing room. ‘One please’ you declare to the assistant, who is likely to be embattled in her own pair of skinny leg- prisons and drawing the curtain across you begin to fitfully stuff your legs into the jeans as if wrestling two crocodiles into a rucksack. If, against all the odds, you do get the damn things on, you’ll probably need some help getting them off. You have been warned.
Then there are Boyfriend jeans. I’m honestly not making this up. Boyfriend jeans are supposed to give off the impression that you’ve borrowed them from your boyfriend. The owner of these jeans will be a pretty cool chick. She’ll have a boyfriend (of course), a chilled out vibe and probably doesn’t have a job. Her boyfriend is saving up so they can go to Goa and she’ll take the jeans along with her to either wear in a casual way to a beach bar, or tie around her head in an improvised way. She probably also wears her boyfriend’s shirt as a mini-dress. Generally, we are jealous of this woman and begrudgingly note that the only time we wear our boyfriend’s jeans is if we’re cold in bed.
So that’s the jeans. Fancy any of them? No. So then there’s the actual trousers. But oh Lord the trousers! We can’t bear it! There is a most peculiar type that has emerged in fashion recently. The ‘harem’ trouser or ‘parachute pant’, which disguises itself as a nice maxi skirt and then BANG, becomes trousers when you get it on. Who would EVER, ever in their right mind, wear trousers like this out of choice? Silken, enormous, floating trousers, brightly coloured patterns and elastic waists! They are ludicrious! They are the trousers of a clown! If you’ve bought any of these in a moment of dazzled confusion, or perhaps the circulation was cut off from your brain in a skinny trousers trying episode and you’ve found yourself in harems just to get the blood going again, for goodness sakes take them off whatever you do. There is no occasion on this Earth, where harem trousers are appropriate, unless of course you’re MC Hammer or Aladdin. If you guys are reading this, never stop rockin’ the harems. They totally suit you.
So I despair. What is a girl to do? If only someone would make trousers in the variety of ‘normal’. They’d make a killing I reckon.
Friday, 9 September 2011
Ode to Wholegrain Mustard
If I was stranded on a desert island and I was only allowed one th....No wait, let me rephrase this *cough* OK, if I was deserted in a kitchen on a desert island and could hope to find only one thing in the island’s solitary cupboard, what would I want to find? Well I shall tell you. I would look for MUSTARD. Deliciously wonderful Whole Grain Mustard. If, shipwrecked and alone, I staggered out of the waves and blinking in the sun, began scrambling for other items from my wrecked vessel I wouldn't be grabbing for things to make shelter. My eyes wouldn’t be desperately scanning the horizon for a ship. I wouldn’t be rolling the corpses of my dead shipmates over in the water and screaming up at the sky in horror. No. I would be searching the waves for a bobbing screw top lid and below it, a nice full jar of the good stuff.
I happen to have cooked dinner every night this week *scowls at husband* and though it’s been very tiring, (a woman’s choices are never easy), I’ve realised something. I put wholegrain mustard into EVERYTHING. What would make this chicken soup taste better? Mustard. Pasta? Mustard. Casserole? Try a bit of mustard in it, that’ll pep it up. Mustard has magical cooking qualities and I’m obsessed with it. Not in a creepy, ‘think about it and cover my body in it’ way you understand? Only in a sensible and healthy appreciation of it kind of a way. Let me explain.
Chico Marx famously said, (ok, it’s not that famous...I had to Google ‘mustard quotes’ pretty extensively) but he said, ‘mustard’s no good without roast beef’. Well he should’ve taken a leaf out of his brother Harpo’s book and kept his trap shut if you ask me. Poor, dumb Harpo was probably the mustard fan of the family and could only look on in muted horror as his brother made these terrible proclamations. Chics has obviously never tasted my mustard mash, because if he had, he would know that mustard adds a delicious piquance to even the most tedious of potato, and while I do agree that it is very good with roast beef, that is only one of its many complimentary companions. Incidentally, Chico Marx also controversially said ‘mint? No. I no like a mint’. Well I have NEVER been so.... *solemnly dedicates life to discrediting Chico Marx quotes*. Anyway, back to the mustard.
Now some say, that mustard destroys the original flavour of the dish and that using it is like covering everything in mayonnaise or ketchup *gags*. How dare you!? Believe me, mustard is much more than just a condiment, it’s an ingredient. It should be moved far away from these most inferior of cupboard sisters and promoted to the highest possible shelf. Well, not quite as high as those bloody show-offs: sugar and sprinkles - It would be wasted up there and they’d have nothing to talk about. ‘Oh look at me mustard! Look at my silver ball-bearings and see how I rattle!’ 'Yeah good for you. Now please be quiet so I can have a minute of peace'. No. Mustard should be firmly at the front of the herbs and spices shelf. The centre piece of the display. Along with the snazzy smoked paprika and ‘herbs de Provence’ oooh la la! If suddenly called upon to perform a Sleeping Beauty/Mary Poppins-style song and dance number, creating a dish without any human interaction at all, I would expect mustard to be the lead singer. ‘A spoon full of mustard helps the onions go brown, the chicken soup not froooown, best casserole in town!’ *thanks rhyming dictionary*.
Please get up and go immediately to the kitchen to promote your mustard. It’s the unsung hero of the kitchen and deserves your respect. Next time you’re cooking something, just try it? Add a little mustard and let the wholegrain work its magic.
I happen to have cooked dinner every night this week *scowls at husband* and though it’s been very tiring, (a woman’s choices are never easy), I’ve realised something. I put wholegrain mustard into EVERYTHING. What would make this chicken soup taste better? Mustard. Pasta? Mustard. Casserole? Try a bit of mustard in it, that’ll pep it up. Mustard has magical cooking qualities and I’m obsessed with it. Not in a creepy, ‘think about it and cover my body in it’ way you understand? Only in a sensible and healthy appreciation of it kind of a way. Let me explain.
Chico Marx famously said, (ok, it’s not that famous...I had to Google ‘mustard quotes’ pretty extensively) but he said, ‘mustard’s no good without roast beef’. Well he should’ve taken a leaf out of his brother Harpo’s book and kept his trap shut if you ask me. Poor, dumb Harpo was probably the mustard fan of the family and could only look on in muted horror as his brother made these terrible proclamations. Chics has obviously never tasted my mustard mash, because if he had, he would know that mustard adds a delicious piquance to even the most tedious of potato, and while I do agree that it is very good with roast beef, that is only one of its many complimentary companions. Incidentally, Chico Marx also controversially said ‘mint? No. I no like a mint’. Well I have NEVER been so.... *solemnly dedicates life to discrediting Chico Marx quotes*. Anyway, back to the mustard.
Now some say, that mustard destroys the original flavour of the dish and that using it is like covering everything in mayonnaise or ketchup *gags*. How dare you!? Believe me, mustard is much more than just a condiment, it’s an ingredient. It should be moved far away from these most inferior of cupboard sisters and promoted to the highest possible shelf. Well, not quite as high as those bloody show-offs: sugar and sprinkles - It would be wasted up there and they’d have nothing to talk about. ‘Oh look at me mustard! Look at my silver ball-bearings and see how I rattle!’ 'Yeah good for you. Now please be quiet so I can have a minute of peace'. No. Mustard should be firmly at the front of the herbs and spices shelf. The centre piece of the display. Along with the snazzy smoked paprika and ‘herbs de Provence’ oooh la la! If suddenly called upon to perform a Sleeping Beauty/Mary Poppins-style song and dance number, creating a dish without any human interaction at all, I would expect mustard to be the lead singer. ‘A spoon full of mustard helps the onions go brown, the chicken soup not froooown, best casserole in town!’ *thanks rhyming dictionary*.
Please get up and go immediately to the kitchen to promote your mustard. It’s the unsung hero of the kitchen and deserves your respect. Next time you’re cooking something, just try it? Add a little mustard and let the wholegrain work its magic.
What's in a Name
Every 10 seconds, a celebrity child is given a stupid name. By the time you’ve finished reading this, 18 more celebrity children will have had a stupid name written on their birth certificate in gold glitter-pen and will be doomed to a life of ridicule and disaster. Today we focus on just one family, but there are hundreds of them out there.
Welcome to the world Harper Seven Beckham! Having scoured the internet in shock this morning for an explanation as to why another helpless infant has been given such a stupid name, I have made two alarming discoveries. First, Harper is actually considered to be one of America’s more normal names. Unsurprisingly, it means ‘a person who plays the harp, or who makes harps’. Well for goodness sakes David and Victoria! Give the poor little tyke a chance to catch her breath! It’s really difficult to play the harp! You have to have excellent dexterity and a musical gift that can’t necessarily be taught. There's a small chance she'll be able to do it, but probably not very well so you’ve basically just set her up for terrible fall. You might as well have called her Humpty Dumpty Beckham.
Nevertheless, it’s the ‘Seven’ part of this poor child’s name that I fear will really cause the damage. Quite simply, it has been chosen because ‘Seven’ is the number of David’s football shirt. Brilliant David. I think it’s clear that the Beckhams now plan the children around the tattoos rather than the other way around and with his career drawing to an end, David must be wanting to add a 7 onto himself somewhere as proof that it all happened. ‘I was the greatest! They called me Golden Balls! Look! Here’s my number see *cranes round desperately to show us his back*. There’s a nice space for a 'Seven' just underneath that ‘Cruz’ on his neck I’d say. Coincidence? Let’s just see what happens shall we? *Hears the sound of the tattoo needle firing up from here*
I don’t know if David has entirely thought things through though? When he finally hangs up his football boots forever and resigns to spending his days with the curtains drawn and avoiding Tom Cruise, little Seven will ride silently past the sitting room on her haunted, Edwardian rocking horse, like that little Marcy in A Beautiful Mind or those corridor twins in The Shining...‘She’s not real David. Don’t look at her. Come and have a little word with Tom, he’s got a nice bracelet for you to wear, it’s red, you like red’, ‘Nooooo Tom! Ahhhh! The number Seven! It haunts me!’ Spooky stuff.
Oh well, at least poor Seven’s not alone in this distressing situation. Not only has David inflicted on himself, a constant reminder of his lost talent , but Harper's big brothers have hardly got off lightly. There’s Brooklyn, sweetly named after the town in which he was conceived... 'Mom that is seriously gross’. I think that’s a story he’ll only be asking to hear once. Then there’s little Romeo, who’ll either be completely rubbish with girls or a super stud. Either way, his name will be a cross to bear. Which brings us neatly to Senor. Cruz Beckham. Si! The brother with a Spanish twist, because...he was born en Espana. They seem to be a very ‘say what you see’ bunch those Beckhams. It’s lucky no one’s been lumbered with ‘Chocolate Milk Beckham’, ‘Highway 101 Beckham’ or Mr Chips! Papa John’s Beckham? No. I’ll stop.
Only Victoria will escape unscathed from this catastrophe. She’ll be relaxing on her sun lounger, cocktail in one hand, the other adjusting her Chanel frames, while all around her, the consequences of her childrens’ names will play out like a surrealist horror. Harper Seven wrestles with a giant harp as her haunted, Edwardian rocking horse tips over and into the pool...without making a splash (ok, I’m even scaring myself now), meanwhile Romeo is chased off the school bus by gangs of jeering girls shouting 'You'll never get a girlfriend you loser!' Brooklyn sits at the dinner table with his iPod turned up full. He’s trying to blast the ‘how did I get my name?’ story out of his poor little head. Cruz will be rattling his castanets and whacking the hell of a party Pinata, ‘Ole!’ And David? Well he’ll be trembling behind the sofa of course. Fingers jammed in ears and eyes screwed shut, hoping that this time, maybe Tom won’t find him... ’98...99...100! Ready or not David, I’m coming!’
That’s a scary picture right there. Next time you sign your own name, spare a thought for families like this ok? It’s got to be pretty tough.
Welcome to the world Harper Seven Beckham! Having scoured the internet in shock this morning for an explanation as to why another helpless infant has been given such a stupid name, I have made two alarming discoveries. First, Harper is actually considered to be one of America’s more normal names. Unsurprisingly, it means ‘a person who plays the harp, or who makes harps’. Well for goodness sakes David and Victoria! Give the poor little tyke a chance to catch her breath! It’s really difficult to play the harp! You have to have excellent dexterity and a musical gift that can’t necessarily be taught. There's a small chance she'll be able to do it, but probably not very well so you’ve basically just set her up for terrible fall. You might as well have called her Humpty Dumpty Beckham.
Nevertheless, it’s the ‘Seven’ part of this poor child’s name that I fear will really cause the damage. Quite simply, it has been chosen because ‘Seven’ is the number of David’s football shirt. Brilliant David. I think it’s clear that the Beckhams now plan the children around the tattoos rather than the other way around and with his career drawing to an end, David must be wanting to add a 7 onto himself somewhere as proof that it all happened. ‘I was the greatest! They called me Golden Balls! Look! Here’s my number see *cranes round desperately to show us his back*. There’s a nice space for a 'Seven' just underneath that ‘Cruz’ on his neck I’d say. Coincidence? Let’s just see what happens shall we? *Hears the sound of the tattoo needle firing up from here*
I don’t know if David has entirely thought things through though? When he finally hangs up his football boots forever and resigns to spending his days with the curtains drawn and avoiding Tom Cruise, little Seven will ride silently past the sitting room on her haunted, Edwardian rocking horse, like that little Marcy in A Beautiful Mind or those corridor twins in The Shining...‘She’s not real David. Don’t look at her. Come and have a little word with Tom, he’s got a nice bracelet for you to wear, it’s red, you like red’, ‘Nooooo Tom! Ahhhh! The number Seven! It haunts me!’ Spooky stuff.
Oh well, at least poor Seven’s not alone in this distressing situation. Not only has David inflicted on himself, a constant reminder of his lost talent , but Harper's big brothers have hardly got off lightly. There’s Brooklyn, sweetly named after the town in which he was conceived... 'Mom that is seriously gross’. I think that’s a story he’ll only be asking to hear once. Then there’s little Romeo, who’ll either be completely rubbish with girls or a super stud. Either way, his name will be a cross to bear. Which brings us neatly to Senor. Cruz Beckham. Si! The brother with a Spanish twist, because...he was born en Espana. They seem to be a very ‘say what you see’ bunch those Beckhams. It’s lucky no one’s been lumbered with ‘Chocolate Milk Beckham’, ‘Highway 101 Beckham’ or Mr Chips! Papa John’s Beckham? No. I’ll stop.
Only Victoria will escape unscathed from this catastrophe. She’ll be relaxing on her sun lounger, cocktail in one hand, the other adjusting her Chanel frames, while all around her, the consequences of her childrens’ names will play out like a surrealist horror. Harper Seven wrestles with a giant harp as her haunted, Edwardian rocking horse tips over and into the pool...without making a splash (ok, I’m even scaring myself now), meanwhile Romeo is chased off the school bus by gangs of jeering girls shouting 'You'll never get a girlfriend you loser!' Brooklyn sits at the dinner table with his iPod turned up full. He’s trying to blast the ‘how did I get my name?’ story out of his poor little head. Cruz will be rattling his castanets and whacking the hell of a party Pinata, ‘Ole!’ And David? Well he’ll be trembling behind the sofa of course. Fingers jammed in ears and eyes screwed shut, hoping that this time, maybe Tom won’t find him... ’98...99...100! Ready or not David, I’m coming!’
That’s a scary picture right there. Next time you sign your own name, spare a thought for families like this ok? It’s got to be pretty tough.
Beyonce Dazzles at Glasto
Old skool critics were worried that Glastonbury would not be ready for the jelly. Some were opposed to welcoming a headliner so self-evidently and completely bootylicious. Some would have preferred that the boss-eyed drone Thom Yorke had had more prominence, or that King Bono could have taken over the stage (world) and churned out more of his old hits while we swayed along obediently. But nevertheless, the Beyonce extravaganza was allowed to go ahead and by the end, it was hard to see how anyone, even the most serious of music listeners (it’s meant to be FUN you dreary bores), can have thought it to be anything other than a spectacular show.
She burst onto the stage like a golden fireball of hair and energy and at first appeared to have forgotten her trousers. We quickly realised with collective relief that the gold ensemble was actually designed to show off her ultra-thighs to their most intimidating and advantageous. Glitteringly gorgeous in her gold jacket and black spangled boots, Beyonce whipped up the crowd and had them on side from the very first minute, launching into fan-favourite Crazy in Love.
‘You are witnessing my dream!’ she informed the delighted crowd of muddied onlookers. ‘Tonight, we are ALL rockstars!’ to which a cheer rose joyfully from the crowd – Not really true though is it Beyonce? YOU are quite clearly a rockstar. You have a gold jacket and a voice that can melt the coldest heart, but we’re not rockstars. I’m at home in my PJs with a cup of decaf, and they haven’t had a shower since Tuesday and are gearing up for another night with their heads in the slurry. Oh well. As if realising this fact she suddenly shouts ‘I want you to forget all your troubles and lose yourself in this music!’ and with that she begins to perform ‘Single Ladies’.
The ‘Single Ladies’ routine is memorising. We already know it is from the music video. As Kayne famously insisted it is, ‘the greatest video of ALL time. Of ALL TIME’ - However, I do think poor Kanye was just another statistic in the consequences of Beyonce's power-thighs. We secretly thought that famous dance routine was maybe all done with clever editing and some mirrors, but now 170,000 eyes are fixed on the ultra-thighs as they whirl around and jerk this way and that and then, ‘Ladies! Put your hand in his FACE and SING, wuh oh oh, oh oh OH oh oh’. Well this sure got the audience going. Men, who had so far been quite enjoying things, suddenly fell ashen as 100,000 women started giving their faces some major Gloria Gaynor attitude.
Quickly though, it passed and Beyonce went on to perform Naughty Girl (good) and then Baby Boy with a peculiar guest appearance from Bristol rapper, Tricky. This was the only part of the show that seemed to go massively wrong. Tricky looked like he had just been given some horrifying news and then been pushed through the stage curtains. ‘Mr Tricky, we’re afraid the Inland Revenue are repossessing your house and your cat has been found in the washing machine...it was on ‘woollens’. We’re very, very sorry’. He completely froze up. I think he perhaps wasn’t quite ready (career-wise) to contribute to a Beyonce mega-concert and looked a little sick and not a little COMPLETELY paralysed with fear. She did her best to help him along but after around 2 minutes of mass audience cringing, he disappeared from the stage... Probably to have his head kicked in by Beyonce’s management team.
Bee ran through all her big hits and it was a very good reminder of just how many of them there actually are. ‘If I Were a Boy’ showed off her vocal talent. There was more audience participation fun with ‘Irreplaceable’ and then a jolly medley of Destiny’s Child hits. At one point she went off stage and her back up group, ‘The Mammas’ sidled to the front of the stage, like the three hyenas from Lion King, purring and muttering something about the men in the audience looking ‘damn fiiiiiine grrrrl’ – the men folk spent the 90 minute set in the most confusing and paradoxical state of being encouraged to dance, look at Beyonce’s memorising power-thighs and then being told that they were replaceable and to hit the road. Such is Beyonce’s message. Poor Jay Z’s head must be spinning.
We assumed Beyonce had disappeared off stage for some kind of outfit change, or maybe to get some trousers, but when she emerged in the same gold jacket we guessed she was actually just being given oxygen or possibly was having a heart attack.
No matter. Beyonce doesn’t need to change outfits to keep our attention. She then sang an utterly beautiful cover of Etta James’s ‘At Last’ which she’d historically performed at the inauguration of President Obama – and lest we forget that fact, there was footage of the special moment on the screen to which the Glastonburyers would cheer their approval whenever Obama flashed up. ‘Yaaaaay! We approve of your president! The vibe is very chilled here at Glastonbury! Nuff respect to the brothers and sisters!’
Next it was quirky current single ‘Run the World’ – Nothing to say other than, ‘who run this mutha? GIRLS’.
And then to finish, an understandably (after all the love she was getting) quite emotional looking Beyonce was guided down the stairs by an extremely cautious security guard, whilst singing ‘Halo’ and came to the railing to touch the willing hands of some very wide-eyed fans. Some wide with pure adoration, but most wide from dropping so much acid since they'd arrived on Wednesday.
So to conclude, from my PJs and behind my cup of decaf, Beyonce was outstanding and by that I mean literally that she stands out. Streets ahead of her peers in the industry and clearly from a different planet to the rest of the world’s 28 years olds. A planet where ultra-thighs laugh in the face of trousers and men cower behind rocks crying, with question marks floating above their heads. Who run(s) the world? Ummm...looks like it’s definitely Beyonce.
She burst onto the stage like a golden fireball of hair and energy and at first appeared to have forgotten her trousers. We quickly realised with collective relief that the gold ensemble was actually designed to show off her ultra-thighs to their most intimidating and advantageous. Glitteringly gorgeous in her gold jacket and black spangled boots, Beyonce whipped up the crowd and had them on side from the very first minute, launching into fan-favourite Crazy in Love.
‘You are witnessing my dream!’ she informed the delighted crowd of muddied onlookers. ‘Tonight, we are ALL rockstars!’ to which a cheer rose joyfully from the crowd – Not really true though is it Beyonce? YOU are quite clearly a rockstar. You have a gold jacket and a voice that can melt the coldest heart, but we’re not rockstars. I’m at home in my PJs with a cup of decaf, and they haven’t had a shower since Tuesday and are gearing up for another night with their heads in the slurry. Oh well. As if realising this fact she suddenly shouts ‘I want you to forget all your troubles and lose yourself in this music!’ and with that she begins to perform ‘Single Ladies’.
The ‘Single Ladies’ routine is memorising. We already know it is from the music video. As Kayne famously insisted it is, ‘the greatest video of ALL time. Of ALL TIME’ - However, I do think poor Kanye was just another statistic in the consequences of Beyonce's power-thighs. We secretly thought that famous dance routine was maybe all done with clever editing and some mirrors, but now 170,000 eyes are fixed on the ultra-thighs as they whirl around and jerk this way and that and then, ‘Ladies! Put your hand in his FACE and SING, wuh oh oh, oh oh OH oh oh’. Well this sure got the audience going. Men, who had so far been quite enjoying things, suddenly fell ashen as 100,000 women started giving their faces some major Gloria Gaynor attitude.
Quickly though, it passed and Beyonce went on to perform Naughty Girl (good) and then Baby Boy with a peculiar guest appearance from Bristol rapper, Tricky. This was the only part of the show that seemed to go massively wrong. Tricky looked like he had just been given some horrifying news and then been pushed through the stage curtains. ‘Mr Tricky, we’re afraid the Inland Revenue are repossessing your house and your cat has been found in the washing machine...it was on ‘woollens’. We’re very, very sorry’. He completely froze up. I think he perhaps wasn’t quite ready (career-wise) to contribute to a Beyonce mega-concert and looked a little sick and not a little COMPLETELY paralysed with fear. She did her best to help him along but after around 2 minutes of mass audience cringing, he disappeared from the stage... Probably to have his head kicked in by Beyonce’s management team.
Bee ran through all her big hits and it was a very good reminder of just how many of them there actually are. ‘If I Were a Boy’ showed off her vocal talent. There was more audience participation fun with ‘Irreplaceable’ and then a jolly medley of Destiny’s Child hits. At one point she went off stage and her back up group, ‘The Mammas’ sidled to the front of the stage, like the three hyenas from Lion King, purring and muttering something about the men in the audience looking ‘damn fiiiiiine grrrrl’ – the men folk spent the 90 minute set in the most confusing and paradoxical state of being encouraged to dance, look at Beyonce’s memorising power-thighs and then being told that they were replaceable and to hit the road. Such is Beyonce’s message. Poor Jay Z’s head must be spinning.
We assumed Beyonce had disappeared off stage for some kind of outfit change, or maybe to get some trousers, but when she emerged in the same gold jacket we guessed she was actually just being given oxygen or possibly was having a heart attack.
No matter. Beyonce doesn’t need to change outfits to keep our attention. She then sang an utterly beautiful cover of Etta James’s ‘At Last’ which she’d historically performed at the inauguration of President Obama – and lest we forget that fact, there was footage of the special moment on the screen to which the Glastonburyers would cheer their approval whenever Obama flashed up. ‘Yaaaaay! We approve of your president! The vibe is very chilled here at Glastonbury! Nuff respect to the brothers and sisters!’
Next it was quirky current single ‘Run the World’ – Nothing to say other than, ‘who run this mutha? GIRLS’.
And then to finish, an understandably (after all the love she was getting) quite emotional looking Beyonce was guided down the stairs by an extremely cautious security guard, whilst singing ‘Halo’ and came to the railing to touch the willing hands of some very wide-eyed fans. Some wide with pure adoration, but most wide from dropping so much acid since they'd arrived on Wednesday.
So to conclude, from my PJs and behind my cup of decaf, Beyonce was outstanding and by that I mean literally that she stands out. Streets ahead of her peers in the industry and clearly from a different planet to the rest of the world’s 28 years olds. A planet where ultra-thighs laugh in the face of trousers and men cower behind rocks crying, with question marks floating above their heads. Who run(s) the world? Ummm...looks like it’s definitely Beyonce.
Alice Through the Looking Glass
Amy Winehouse, last orders please. PLEASE
Amy Winehouse is wasted again? Umm, yeah so? Well this time she’s not trotting her horrifying, bloodied ballet pumps around Camden, but is instead flinging them around a stage in Belgrade, whist simultaneously slurring her way through Back to Black and trying to keep her beehived head from lolling off. Fans were charged up to £30 each to watch the wreckage of poor Amy’s life be spread out across the stage like a transparent board of evidence on Crimewatch. ‘Here we have Amy’s liver and beehive, a discarded ballet pump and a Grammy award which appears to have been used to mainline heroin into her knuckles. Now over to Rav!’ Poor Amy though. Joking aside, we want you to get better. Maybe have an orange squash instead? Just try it?
R.I P Ryan Dunn
Ryan Dunn from Jackass has attempted a Back to the Future style manoeuvre and driven his Porsche 911 at 130 mph into a hedge on the way home from a night out. Unfortunately for Ryan, and for his friend Zachary, instead of reappearing from the hedge in the year 1955, he has died instead. Not really funny. Again, joking aside, Back to the Future was just a movie Ryan. Maybe get a cab home next time? Ryan...? Oh...
That’s What You Get For Waking Up In Vegas
Call the Police! The horrible prison guard from The Green Mile has married a 16 year old child-woman in Vegas and has ‘set up home with her in the Hollywood Hills’. Let’s hope she doesn’t suffer the same fate as poor Mr Jingles the prison mouse! The blushing bride is Courtney Alexis Stodden, aspiring singer and brains behind the lyrics ‘I will not be responsible for your lover’s attraction, I will not be a victim of your aggressive reaction’ – crikey. If only poor Mr Jingles had been so good with rhymes, he mightn’t have got stomped on. Oh well, according to Courtney’s mentally unwell father...what? Oh sorry. According to Courtney’s FATHER, ‘Doug is the nicest man’ he’s ‘ever met in his life’ and ‘every father can only pray to have such a man behind their daughter’... Oh dear. Oh deary deary me. Well, congratulations to the bride and groom. Sadly, Doug will be dead before Courtney is old enough to watch The Green Mile so hopefully she’ll never have to realise the true horror of who she’s married until it’s all over.
Glastonbury
It’s Glastonbury. Glastonbury! Wooo!! Mud and bands! And a tent! Yeaaaah! I know I’m probably the only one, but... I wouldn’t go to Glastonbury if you PAID me. Not even if you BEGGED. Oh sure it’s got Beyonce. I suppose I could be tempted out of the car for 20 minutes to pay homage to the great Mrs Z. If it was raining, I’d at least wind down the window to bop along to ‘Single Ladies’ and maybe ‘If I were a Boooooy!’ But that’s as far as it would go I’m afraid. After that it would be car door slamming and mud flying off my tyres as I got out of there as fast as possible and back home to my clean bed and toilet, that I know no one can push over while I’m in there. That’s a worry that you just do not need in the bathroom. The only other act I’ve even heard of this year is Tinie Tempah. I thought he only had that one song? That’ll be a short set in the old triangle tent, or whatever it’s called. Oh well, if you’re going, have a nice time. I think I'll leave it to the cool kids.
Amy Winehouse is wasted again? Umm, yeah so? Well this time she’s not trotting her horrifying, bloodied ballet pumps around Camden, but is instead flinging them around a stage in Belgrade, whist simultaneously slurring her way through Back to Black and trying to keep her beehived head from lolling off. Fans were charged up to £30 each to watch the wreckage of poor Amy’s life be spread out across the stage like a transparent board of evidence on Crimewatch. ‘Here we have Amy’s liver and beehive, a discarded ballet pump and a Grammy award which appears to have been used to mainline heroin into her knuckles. Now over to Rav!’ Poor Amy though. Joking aside, we want you to get better. Maybe have an orange squash instead? Just try it?
R.I P Ryan Dunn
Ryan Dunn from Jackass has attempted a Back to the Future style manoeuvre and driven his Porsche 911 at 130 mph into a hedge on the way home from a night out. Unfortunately for Ryan, and for his friend Zachary, instead of reappearing from the hedge in the year 1955, he has died instead. Not really funny. Again, joking aside, Back to the Future was just a movie Ryan. Maybe get a cab home next time? Ryan...? Oh...
That’s What You Get For Waking Up In Vegas
Call the Police! The horrible prison guard from The Green Mile has married a 16 year old child-woman in Vegas and has ‘set up home with her in the Hollywood Hills’. Let’s hope she doesn’t suffer the same fate as poor Mr Jingles the prison mouse! The blushing bride is Courtney Alexis Stodden, aspiring singer and brains behind the lyrics ‘I will not be responsible for your lover’s attraction, I will not be a victim of your aggressive reaction’ – crikey. If only poor Mr Jingles had been so good with rhymes, he mightn’t have got stomped on. Oh well, according to Courtney’s mentally unwell father...what? Oh sorry. According to Courtney’s FATHER, ‘Doug is the nicest man’ he’s ‘ever met in his life’ and ‘every father can only pray to have such a man behind their daughter’... Oh dear. Oh deary deary me. Well, congratulations to the bride and groom. Sadly, Doug will be dead before Courtney is old enough to watch The Green Mile so hopefully she’ll never have to realise the true horror of who she’s married until it’s all over.
Glastonbury
It’s Glastonbury. Glastonbury! Wooo!! Mud and bands! And a tent! Yeaaaah! I know I’m probably the only one, but... I wouldn’t go to Glastonbury if you PAID me. Not even if you BEGGED. Oh sure it’s got Beyonce. I suppose I could be tempted out of the car for 20 minutes to pay homage to the great Mrs Z. If it was raining, I’d at least wind down the window to bop along to ‘Single Ladies’ and maybe ‘If I were a Boooooy!’ But that’s as far as it would go I’m afraid. After that it would be car door slamming and mud flying off my tyres as I got out of there as fast as possible and back home to my clean bed and toilet, that I know no one can push over while I’m in there. That’s a worry that you just do not need in the bathroom. The only other act I’ve even heard of this year is Tinie Tempah. I thought he only had that one song? That’ll be a short set in the old triangle tent, or whatever it’s called. Oh well, if you’re going, have a nice time. I think I'll leave it to the cool kids.
I signed up to Twitter this week. Mainly because everyone else was doing it and I hate being left out *anxiously recalls painful lesson learnt aged 9, after hurling self from wall to copy older, cooler girls*
But luckily so far, Twitter is nothing like that fateful wall. With an appealing sky blue facade, a friendly little bird as a mascot and as easy to work out as push button phone (For heaven’s sake grandma! You just pick up the receiver and dial!) it’s a whole new world of talking (stalking).
Twitter had me hooked straight away, ‘Oh Alice! Come and join us! In this sky blue world you can be friends with people you’ve never dreamed of! Look! Over there is Oprah Winfrey giving out some life advice and here is Barack Obama at a congressional picnic of all places! You and Lady Gaga seem to be watching the same thing on TV right now! You!? and GAGA!?’ It’s really quite something.
Not only can you read ‘tweets’, but you actually write them as well and if you mention someone’s name, they will see it. What a thrill that is! Imagining Bill Gates, eyebrows raised, pushing his glasses up from his nose and peering forward at the screen to see what YOU have said from your idiotic gas-fired computer. Bloody brilliant.
There is of course (sorry @Oprah, I am trying to be positive) a downside to all this. When you join Twitter and begin to ‘follow’ people (I’m now ‘following’ 114 people) you can’t help but notice that you don’t have any followers yourself...and this leads to the distinct feeling that you might as well be back up on that wall, aged 9, preparing for a short flight to the ground that will certainly end in tears (from you) and laughter (from the cooler people).
So I know what you're thinking. Just get some followers right? Make some friends! Get out there and mingle? Well it’s easier said than done, let me tell you. It’s recommended that to attract followers (much like in the real world) you must interact with people. Say things to them. Make a name for yourself on the scene. But after trying it a few times, you feel like that kid in the playground that no one likes, ‘Hey guys! Wanna play marbles? Hey everyone! Wait for me!’ Twitter is a real, systematic confidence killer.
So, option two is just talk to yourself? Easier and less rejecting (most of the time – I can be a real bitch), but then you can end up feeling like your witty comments are simply being wasted on just stupid old you. It’s Obama, Kanye and Cher who you really want to impress, not just the few spammer sex-perverts who have crawled from under their rocks and onto your follower list – that’s a real hazard by the way. The joy of seeing you have a follower is dashed when you click their smiling profile picture, only to discover that they are most likely following you from the inner depths of some Miami mega jail *shudder*. Virtual shanking? No thanks.
The other type of follower that a loser like you or I might attract is salesfolk. ‘Follow me back and win a prize!’ – errr no thanks. This page is reserved for A-List tweets thank you very much. I have important things to say to Mr McCartney and I don’t need free paint-balling sessions. Creeps. I have ‘reported’ these people to the Twitter police as ‘spam’ and ‘blocked’ their asses from my page – but now I worry that even that was uncool. Maybe it’s Twitter etiquette to tolerate these underlings? ‘Oh yeah Suzy Sex Pest? She’s harmless. And she tweets a lovely recipe for rock cakes’. ‘Miss, Miss! Carly won’t play marbles with me!’ springs to mind– not cool Alice. Not cool.
However, before you stop reading for fear of damaging your own street-cred by association, a couple of cool moments have actually happened to me. I’ve had real, genuine correspondence with two people of interest! One thing I tweeted @indiaknight made her ‘choke on her tea’ – with laughter you understand? Not with disgust at my apparent uncoolness and motley following of perverts and merchants. And @SteveHarvey sent me a link to his radio show at my very own request! Wow. These were real highlights. I was sure the followers would flood in after that – but...they didn’t. Oh well it's only day 4. I will keep you posted and if you’re reading this, please follow me ok? It’s embarrassing. I’m not adverse to a pity follow. Thanks.
Love, @AliceBand1
But luckily so far, Twitter is nothing like that fateful wall. With an appealing sky blue facade, a friendly little bird as a mascot and as easy to work out as push button phone (For heaven’s sake grandma! You just pick up the receiver and dial!) it’s a whole new world of talking (stalking).
Twitter had me hooked straight away, ‘Oh Alice! Come and join us! In this sky blue world you can be friends with people you’ve never dreamed of! Look! Over there is Oprah Winfrey giving out some life advice and here is Barack Obama at a congressional picnic of all places! You and Lady Gaga seem to be watching the same thing on TV right now! You!? and GAGA!?’ It’s really quite something.
Not only can you read ‘tweets’, but you actually write them as well and if you mention someone’s name, they will see it. What a thrill that is! Imagining Bill Gates, eyebrows raised, pushing his glasses up from his nose and peering forward at the screen to see what YOU have said from your idiotic gas-fired computer. Bloody brilliant.
There is of course (sorry @Oprah, I am trying to be positive) a downside to all this. When you join Twitter and begin to ‘follow’ people (I’m now ‘following’ 114 people) you can’t help but notice that you don’t have any followers yourself...and this leads to the distinct feeling that you might as well be back up on that wall, aged 9, preparing for a short flight to the ground that will certainly end in tears (from you) and laughter (from the cooler people).
So I know what you're thinking. Just get some followers right? Make some friends! Get out there and mingle? Well it’s easier said than done, let me tell you. It’s recommended that to attract followers (much like in the real world) you must interact with people. Say things to them. Make a name for yourself on the scene. But after trying it a few times, you feel like that kid in the playground that no one likes, ‘Hey guys! Wanna play marbles? Hey everyone! Wait for me!’ Twitter is a real, systematic confidence killer.
So, option two is just talk to yourself? Easier and less rejecting (most of the time – I can be a real bitch), but then you can end up feeling like your witty comments are simply being wasted on just stupid old you. It’s Obama, Kanye and Cher who you really want to impress, not just the few spammer sex-perverts who have crawled from under their rocks and onto your follower list – that’s a real hazard by the way. The joy of seeing you have a follower is dashed when you click their smiling profile picture, only to discover that they are most likely following you from the inner depths of some Miami mega jail *shudder*. Virtual shanking? No thanks.
The other type of follower that a loser like you or I might attract is salesfolk. ‘Follow me back and win a prize!’ – errr no thanks. This page is reserved for A-List tweets thank you very much. I have important things to say to Mr McCartney and I don’t need free paint-balling sessions. Creeps. I have ‘reported’ these people to the Twitter police as ‘spam’ and ‘blocked’ their asses from my page – but now I worry that even that was uncool. Maybe it’s Twitter etiquette to tolerate these underlings? ‘Oh yeah Suzy Sex Pest? She’s harmless. And she tweets a lovely recipe for rock cakes’. ‘Miss, Miss! Carly won’t play marbles with me!’ springs to mind– not cool Alice. Not cool.
However, before you stop reading for fear of damaging your own street-cred by association, a couple of cool moments have actually happened to me. I’ve had real, genuine correspondence with two people of interest! One thing I tweeted @indiaknight made her ‘choke on her tea’ – with laughter you understand? Not with disgust at my apparent uncoolness and motley following of perverts and merchants. And @SteveHarvey sent me a link to his radio show at my very own request! Wow. These were real highlights. I was sure the followers would flood in after that – but...they didn’t. Oh well it's only day 4. I will keep you posted and if you’re reading this, please follow me ok? It’s embarrassing. I’m not adverse to a pity follow. Thanks.
Love, @AliceBand1
Burning House
Eeesh, this is hard. Well first off, I think I’d better save only items that are in my bedroom, as the fire could well be raging outside the door couldn’t it? *shudders at the memory of Back Draft*
And I’m assuming that I’m in my bedroom and that this is a dead of night fire correct? One presumes that a fire during in the day would come as less of a shocker and that you might have time to try and extinguish it yourself with a damp towel, or as a last resort, with the help of the brigade (Fire Brigade, not Girls’ Brigade – they’d probably be responsible for setting the fire in the first place). Tut.
Although, saving just items in my bedroom limits me to only saving things like my stuffed Koala pal (awww), my alarm clock (no way), my bed (but that’s so impractical).
No, I think for the sake of a more interesting list of items, this fire must be considered purely hypothetical. Doors can be opened freely without disastrously completing the fire triangle and I’m not solely responsible for manoeuvring the items from the house to the street ok? To rephrase then: If the Girls’ Brigade knocked on the door with some matches, what would I make sure to get the hell out of there before the whole place went up? Let me see...
My memory box: The first thing I’d save is a box of items really (which is cheating – but this is my fictional fire so who’s going to stop me?!) and it contains things like all my teenage angsty journals, photographs of assorted people who I’ve encountered along the way, letters, notes passed under desks in lessons and other miscellaneous things like shells, badges, corks. If I ever get amnesia, you can just show me this box and it’ll all flood back. If only Madge had a box like this for poor Harold it might not have all been so painful to watch.
My wedding dress: £1200 of Spanish lace and sparkling splendiferousness. They said I could have it ‘shortened’ and made into a ‘cocktail dress’ for afterwards - ‘Oh and if you bust your wedding ring open with garden pliers, you can use it to pick locks if you ever forget your keys!’ How dare they?! This dress symbolises the happy day when I made an honest man out of Mr Alice and also it was the most beautiful piece of clothing I ever had next to my skin. Except for the time I broke into a display cabinet in the V&A and got into those gold hotpants. No that didn’t happen. What?
Tin Foil: Now you’ve got to be practical in a fire. You don’t want to be picking through the charred remains of your house the next day, wearing your wedding dress and sobbing into your memory box like Miss Haversham. You’ve got to think like a survivor and there’s not much you can’t do with a good roll of tin foil. Of course there’s the obvious like preserve your left overs, but there are numerous other applications that would be of great use in a post fire scenario. You can wrap yourself in it to keep warm, or to look professional if you’ve just finished a long run such as a marathon. You can cut out small circles of it to use as currency. You can make a sun reflector and attract attention from passing ships or you can screw lots of it up around a rock and make a football. The list is endless.
Peanut Butter: For some reason, this was the first thing I thought of and I’m not too sure why. But one should always trust one’s instincts so rather than dismissing it, I am faithfully adding it to the list – whilst also being a little concerned that in a real fire, this would literally be what I would have grabbed for. Hmmm. *Takes jar from shelf and places into handbag*
My goldfish (plural): Now, I’m assuming Mr Alice is getting out on his own obviously so that’s why I’m reaching for the rest of the family here. And I suppose this means I’m saving the goldfish bowl too, as stuffing poor Beyonce and Jay Z into my pockets would probably traumatise all three of us more than the fire ever could. Two of us wouldn’t survive that horror, and it could easily be any combination.
And that's it. Nothing else needed. If you want see what other people would save, have a little look at this site: www.theburninghouse.com
And I’m assuming that I’m in my bedroom and that this is a dead of night fire correct? One presumes that a fire during in the day would come as less of a shocker and that you might have time to try and extinguish it yourself with a damp towel, or as a last resort, with the help of the brigade (Fire Brigade, not Girls’ Brigade – they’d probably be responsible for setting the fire in the first place). Tut.
Although, saving just items in my bedroom limits me to only saving things like my stuffed Koala pal (awww), my alarm clock (no way), my bed (but that’s so impractical).
No, I think for the sake of a more interesting list of items, this fire must be considered purely hypothetical. Doors can be opened freely without disastrously completing the fire triangle and I’m not solely responsible for manoeuvring the items from the house to the street ok? To rephrase then: If the Girls’ Brigade knocked on the door with some matches, what would I make sure to get the hell out of there before the whole place went up? Let me see...
My memory box: The first thing I’d save is a box of items really (which is cheating – but this is my fictional fire so who’s going to stop me?!) and it contains things like all my teenage angsty journals, photographs of assorted people who I’ve encountered along the way, letters, notes passed under desks in lessons and other miscellaneous things like shells, badges, corks. If I ever get amnesia, you can just show me this box and it’ll all flood back. If only Madge had a box like this for poor Harold it might not have all been so painful to watch.
My wedding dress: £1200 of Spanish lace and sparkling splendiferousness. They said I could have it ‘shortened’ and made into a ‘cocktail dress’ for afterwards - ‘Oh and if you bust your wedding ring open with garden pliers, you can use it to pick locks if you ever forget your keys!’ How dare they?! This dress symbolises the happy day when I made an honest man out of Mr Alice and also it was the most beautiful piece of clothing I ever had next to my skin. Except for the time I broke into a display cabinet in the V&A and got into those gold hotpants. No that didn’t happen. What?
Tin Foil: Now you’ve got to be practical in a fire. You don’t want to be picking through the charred remains of your house the next day, wearing your wedding dress and sobbing into your memory box like Miss Haversham. You’ve got to think like a survivor and there’s not much you can’t do with a good roll of tin foil. Of course there’s the obvious like preserve your left overs, but there are numerous other applications that would be of great use in a post fire scenario. You can wrap yourself in it to keep warm, or to look professional if you’ve just finished a long run such as a marathon. You can cut out small circles of it to use as currency. You can make a sun reflector and attract attention from passing ships or you can screw lots of it up around a rock and make a football. The list is endless.
Peanut Butter: For some reason, this was the first thing I thought of and I’m not too sure why. But one should always trust one’s instincts so rather than dismissing it, I am faithfully adding it to the list – whilst also being a little concerned that in a real fire, this would literally be what I would have grabbed for. Hmmm. *Takes jar from shelf and places into handbag*
My goldfish (plural): Now, I’m assuming Mr Alice is getting out on his own obviously so that’s why I’m reaching for the rest of the family here. And I suppose this means I’m saving the goldfish bowl too, as stuffing poor Beyonce and Jay Z into my pockets would probably traumatise all three of us more than the fire ever could. Two of us wouldn’t survive that horror, and it could easily be any combination.
And that's it. Nothing else needed. If you want see what other people would save, have a little look at this site: www.theburninghouse.com
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