SOMETHING BAD HAPPENED

And it's rinsed me of money I don't even have in the first place.

For the cost of this, I could've got:

Or a flight to New York. Check your tax disc people.

Cape Back Dress - £80

Boyfriend Tweed Blazer - £70

Argyle Ankle Boots - £65

Earrings - £10

All Topshop

ON ANOTHER MUSICAL NOTE

I think I've made my feelings for Taylor Momsen pretty clear previously - but I've gone and shot myself in the foot by bloody liking this song. Now, unless I'm alone in this, watching the video will make you want to hurt her or yourself or someone nearby, but try and focus on the her without accidentally snapping your laptop in two. This wannabe Courtney Love slash Shirley Manson shiz she's trying to pull is a joke of epic proportions, especially seeing as she looks like she was sponsored by Claire's Accessories 'Bad Ass' range. I mean what on earth is with those trainee hairdresser extensions? Video aside, the song is pretty catchy, I particularly like the chorus - my best advice to enjoy it: DO NOT look at the screen, sit back, and pretend it's a Kelly Clarkson/Pink! duet - much better.

SOZ

So I've been a bit awful at updating recently, it's cos I've been working so I shan't complain really. 

I'm going to put up a bit of my work for this other website, cheeky recycling but I wrote it didn't I?

WHERE I LAY MY HEAD...

...And play on my laptop.

IT'S THE MUTHACHUCKING NINETIES...

...Well, it kinda was this time last year. This is something I wrote then, which I suppose is kind've true now. HOWEVER - I've been feeling like fashion/trends/whatever is all a bit non-directional at the moment. There seems to be a large influx of a LOT of different influences all cajoling for top spot in the sartorial stakes. I, for one, have absolutely no idea what I want to be wearing, let alone some kind of thematic approach to my wardrobe at the minute. Maybe I'll have a Eureka moment soon, until then I am thoroughly confused.com.

WRITTEN MAY 2009.

As we approach the end of our first decade into the 21^st century, there’s been a definite whiff of nostalgia for years not that long gone detectable in the fashion air. From 2005 onwards Britain has been on a steady tour de force with the nineties – starting with rave. Or should we call it Nu? Marrying, in a somewhat hit and miss fashion, the essence of the Hacienda glory days of dance hall brights and neon, with modern day transvestite style make-up peeled straight from the face of Hello Kitty loving web Celebs Jeffree Star and Jodie Harsh. It was a look that was embraced wholeheartedly by those on the club-scene and enabled the country to live out it’s last days of economic stability in a flash of colour, even though the Tweens still cling to the wristbands as if their lives depend on it – thanks in no small part to Claire’s Accessories – the party is most definitely now over.

As monetary conditions worsened in 2007, we as a nation turned to America, and classic early nineties Americana specifically, for some guidance – after all they survived a depression with a smile on their face so who better for a bit of fashion support? Unashamed reds, blues and bold stars emblazoned everything from Yves Saint Laurent necklaces, to Chanel suits, and double denim was a dirty alliteration no more. Such a big look required a big grin, but as the accounts kept dwindling our cheeks began to ache – and we looked elsewhere for something that would lend itself to our newfound state of static finances more suitably.

Enter, grunge. Doc Marten’s had been kicking around amongst the cool kids for a while before everyone else caught on, scuffing the side-streets of Dalston unobserved before Alice Dellal and Aggy decided to champion them to the masses. They signified the introduction of practical, long-lasting fashion. People didn’t have money to be splashing out on a new pair of decorative pumps every other week, and what good were they in the depressing British rain anyway? We were a country in the midst of a big fat mope. Initially, people lacked inspiration thus paired them with the obvious skinny jeans or aged Levi cut-offs and a check shirt, the androgyny signifying that romance and the definition of the sexes was now completely ludicrous, dates aren’t cheap.

But after a few months we got frisky, and before you knew it there was the occasional glimpse of pretty chiffon or lace cutting a fine dash on the high street. As is the way with a revolution, the trend spread like wildfire and grunge got a whole lot more interesting. Forget the Kurt look of before, now it’s all about Courtney – teaming the sturdy footwear with the most delicate slips of summer dresses somehow reinforces femininity rather than detracting from it – the juxtaposition of frailty with a sturdy, solid base is demonstrative of our nation as a whole in these troubled times. In the spirit of the Spice Girls and Oasis of years gone by, kick arse England is most definitely back. We might be down, but we’re definitely not out – and this teenage rebellion attitude is one of the best revivals from 1996 we could have hoped for, that is unless E-17 decide to forge a comeback. One can but dream.

HAUTE CUISINE

Continuing on from the previous post on my joblessness, here is how I get my (very) cheap thrills on a Bank Holiday Weekend. It's probs rather obvious that I unashamedly lick the very ground that Sophie Dahl walks on, so her food programme flies high on my excitability radar. Cooking, I have found, is a stupidly satisfying activity when you're not really sure what to do with yourself, and last night I tackled my first 'off the telly' recipe. 

Roasted Tomato and Thyme (and basil) Soup with Double Baked (blue) Cheese and Chive Potatoes

Ingredients

For the potatoes

4 baking potatoes

knob of butter

2 tbsp crème fraîche

small bunch fresh chives, finely chopped

200g/7oz soft blue goats' cheese

1 free-range egg, beaten

sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

For the soup

2kg/4½lbs large ripe plum tomatoes, halved

1 garlic bulb, cut in half horizontally

2 large red onions, peeled, quartered

few sprigs fresh thyme

1 tbsp golden caster sugar

sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

2 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

250ml/9fl oz vegetable stock (optional)

100ml/3½fl oz single cream (optional)

a few drops Worcestershire sauce (optional)

a few drops balsamic vinegar (optional)

Method

1. Preheat the oven to 190C/375F/Gas 5.

2. Bake the potatoes directly on the wire rack of the oven for 1½ - 1¾ hours, or until tender.

3. Meanwhile, for the soup, place the tomatoes, garlic, onions and thyme into a large roasting tin and season, to taste, with salt and freshly ground black pepper. Drizzle with the oil, and roast in the oven for 40-50 minutes. Remove from the oven and set aside to cool slightly.

4. Mash the garlic with the back of a fork, and discard the skin. Tip the roasted tomatoes and onions into a food processor along with the mashed garlic,

and pulse until smooth.

5. If the soup is too thick, pour into a large saucepan and loosen the mixture with either vegetable stock, or single cream. Add a little Worcestershire sauce or balsamic vinegar, to season, if you like.

6. Remove the potatoes from the oven and using a cloth to hold the hot potato, cut each one in half and scoop out the insides into a bowl.

7. Mix in the butter, crème fraîche, chives and goats' cheese, and stir in the egg.

8. Season, to taste, with salt and freshly ground black pepper, and spoon the potato mixture back into the skins. Place onto a baking tray in the oven for

a further 15-20 minutes, or until golden-brown and crisp on top.

9. To serve, reheat the soup and divide among four bowls, with two potato halves each on the side.

I found the whole process incredibly easy, and that's not bigging myself up as I'm really quite stupid. Best bit: roughly chopping the tomatoes, onion and garlic and getting it all oily and salty with my hands - tres Nigella. Worst Bit: liquifying the soup with a hand held blender, got a tiny bit splattered... But it tasted nice, faffing about with presentation added a fastidious bonus and I'd deffo do it again.

YOUNG WOES

So, still surfing the wave of unemployment, I have written more Cover Letters in the past 9 months than The Olsen's combined have had hot dinners. Not hard really. But after a while, the constant rejection gears up from a feeling of a mild annoyance to a hefty kick in the groin. The reason I digress is, I am in the middle of applying for a job at a Teen Magazine. Yet another added bonus of my chosen profession is that there is no simple application form, tick box, AB or C option - pretty much every position advertised requires at least three feature ideas and about 300 words in the 'house style'. This particular role demands five feature propositions as well as a diary or blog entry in the prose of a 'typical teenager'. Right. 

Already being deemed geriatric by my 18 year old sister, this could prove harder than thought. Luckily, I still have an old diary from the height of my own adolescent angst to refer to; and when reading it the first thought to enter my head - what a fucking idiot. There is no way that I could use any of that whinging crap, riddled with abominable spelling and toe-curlingly awful slang. It is interesting though, how one tends to view their formative years from such a rose-tinted perspective, when in reality, we (or maybe just I) were as rattlingly insecure as Woody Allen on acid.

For example, then, I had my whole life ahead of me, good skin, and never had to consider stale pans in the sink, overdue laundry or managing a weekly shop with £8. Whereas now, I'm a solid government statistic, poor and not really sure what I'm doing from day to day, yet I'm far happier. It's a rare thing to be grateful of age, but in this case I so am. Having said that, I'll probably read this in five years time and want to break my own fingers so I can never write such bollocks again.

SICK AS A PARROT

So I'm like totally poorly at the minute, isn't it ridiculous how a bad cold can make you feel like you've forgotten what it is to breathe with ease. Whilst I lay here in my gross death bed, here is what I'd love to be doing if I were well and able.

I'd like to lounge here for a good few hours:

With some of this to stuff my face with:

Then go and see this at the Curzon Mayfair:

Finishing the day off with about 8 of these:

PURE SHORES

It amazes me how I have neglected to ad lib about something so dear to my heart for so long. It wasn't until prompted by an incredibly stylish friend that I stopped, smacked my forehead and said to myself "Jesus Christ what have you been playing at." I am of course harping on about the MTV sensation Jersey Shore, featuring nympho-guido's and the best hair this side of Coney Island circa 1983. In my head, the cast are split into three camps, firstly, those I want to be: Snooki and JWOWW, secondly, those I kind of fancy but don't know why, i.e. all the guys, and thirdly: Sammi the not so sweetheart, more dick. She can be in a camp all on her own and see who'll fight over her then. 

I used to go out in Weston-Super-Mare at the age of 15 and let me tell you there is little difference between there and the infamous hot-spot Karma. Yes, I wore pink high heeled Timbs, swigged voddy outside Tesco's and worked my way through a pack of Mayfair Menthols all wearing frosted lipgloss, but I never managed to be invited back to a menag-a-something in a rooftop hot-tub. Shame. With those days regretfully behind me, all I have to cling on to, in hopes of someday fist pumping myself into a frenzy once more, is a never dying love of pickles and a jaunty hair "poof", both guilty pleasures which can be incorporated into everyday life almost seamlessly. However, be careful not to indulge in too many gherkin style treats and keep the coke with your rum decidedly diet, or flaunting your best nipple grazing, naval swinging loin cloth of a top a la JWOWW could prove to be more flab than fab. If I were you I'd be heading to the local retail park to G.T.L. ready for summer quicker than you can say "I'm a Mama's Boy". See you on the boardwalk.

P.S. I didn't include Angelina in my categorization of cast members as she chose not to include herself in the show. I would say sorry for being petty and say she has nice short shorts or something but I won't and I am. What a waster.

YOU'LL NEVER WALK ALONE

We all know the word "wigga", well I'm like one of those but for Scousers. Both my best friends Danielle and Tony are from the magical place of purple bins and yellow bus stops and I'm well jealous. Liverpool has undoubtedly THE best nightlife in the UK and I never fail to be amazed by a) the drink prices and b) the sheer amount of fucking cool people. Not only is everyone DEAD nice, or sound as it were, there is an unusual percentage of well-dressed people - from eclectic vintage mongers wearing the best that Raider's have to offer, to WAGS decked out in Cricket's finest - Balmain for a night out? Sure. During my many encounters t'up North I have endured: a visit to A&E after shamefully falling off a bar stool, a freshly opened stream of Champagne straight in the eye and most hideously of all, been comatose on the steps of a strange house - yet I still love it. I know the locals probably think I'm an embarrassing pain in the arse when I say 'pya' or 'meff' but I don't care. I'm a "Fouser" (faux-scouser) and PROUD, laaaaaa.

LET'S TALK ABOUT SPECS BABAY...

... Let's talk about YOU and ME. Ahh the effervescent immortality of Salt 'n' Pepper. But obviously we're not discussing lewd early 90's girl rap here. I've needed glasses since I was 14 yet have not worn them for over two years as I feel like they make me look like the lovechild of Woody Allen and Vanessa Feltz. I was so so so excited when I got my first Armani pair, standard mushroom-y black Louis Theroux frames, then after a year I got bored so decided to switch up to a more "experimental" pair of Vivienne Westwood's; which had, and I kid you not, pink, tinted egg-shaped lenses, free floating on a single piece of gold wire that sat across the bridge of the nose and wrapped round to the ears. Teamed with a fringe like that woman of the Compo advert I'm surprised I never got egged in the street. I then settled on a reasonably "safe" pair of Chanel frameless jobbies, which I then found out Paul O'Grady had so they were binned off. Last pair to now were the over popular Prada black visor style, with gems down the sides... hence why I haven't worn them in a while... SO, after literally months of searching (as well as discovering that opticians have the most unflattering lighting EVER) I settled on the cliched Ray Bans in "Dark Havana". What with my well documented financial limitations, I decided to be a cheap-arse and scoped out the specific frame that would sufficiently fit my extra-ordinarily large face, and ordered them online. Worked out pretty well I think, all in all £75 including lenses as opposed to the £200 odd I would have paid in the shops. Please excuse the wanky photo booth shot, it's for demonstration purposes only. Oh, and I wish my hair went like that all the time.