Hopeless and ultimately damaging ambitions.

Oh so you want to work in fashion? And whomever you were just talking has glazed over and their thoughts drift to which celebrity chef they hate the most, assuming of course that you’re a topshop airhead and the depth to which you read is Look magazine. In truth this kind of venture is no mean feat, if the devil wears Prada, then any reputable fashion editor is swaggering around in a latex body stocking cracking their whips around the office of dazed and confused. 

There is almost an impenetrable barrier separating us from the weird world of fashion, to find yourself in a favourable position you must subject yourself to all manner of abuse, torment and even then there are a million people fighting for the same thing, is it even worth all this? Probably not, but at least it’s something to occupy the emptiness of life with dressing nicely and talking about it. Useful tactics involve throwing yourself into valuable social situations, many a night out in the Joiners arms, seeking out its most prized occupants, soulless flattery and exploitation, what a healthy way to make something of yourself. Proceeding the improving contact list, trying to land an internship is the next mile stone that many fall flat, you must have the CV of a fashion work horse, all to sit in an office making cups of tea and or running around walking everyone’s dogs. All in the hope this self-destructive path will get you to fashion week’s front row eventually.

camp it up

Im starting to find the archetypal format of the 'night out' all a little bit depressing, each time returning home with a little less faith in humanity than was previously held. Controversially my idea of an eventful evening, is not one in which i spend in controlled mating ground, avoiding the lingering gaze of a sweaty youth downing bottles of VK at the bar with all his other randy rugby pals.

Nor is it queuing for half the night to finally get in to a sticky bathroom, surrounded by the sight of girls vomiting, crying, comparing breasts and layering yet more bronzer on. It is also somewhat inevitable that at least one of these girls will try to befriend you and attempt to come in the cubicle with you. Is this really what we have come to expect of our nightlife? Is this considered fun? If so, this is not the blogpost for you and you should probably get back to tonights preparations of fake baking for tiger tiger.

For the few who remain, the ones disillusioned with life as we've come to know it, i offer an alternative. But no, this does not mean were all going to Blackpool to dance the night away with our charming chaperones. Rather the opposite, a night in your local gay club will not disappoint, imagine an evening were none of those beautifully groomed gents are going to grab your arse on the walk across the dance floor, and they talk to you just because they want to and can give you a run for your money when booty shaking to Beyonce

If your experience is anything similar to a night at the joiners arms on hackney road, this night could become a regular occurrence, the late opening license (no trying to escape before some creepy guy tries to follow you out), the cheap drinks the opportunity to spot christopher kane in the smoking area are all more than enough reasons to camp it up, just asked fianna...

im pretentious, maybe you are too.

One casual night with friends, with the ash tray brimming, the smoke lingering and the last of the wine being tipped from the bottle, our bleary thoughts began to wander on to the music that we first believed really resonated with our young and empty heads.


Now we had tapped into this sentimental stream of consciousness we began discussing the life affirming lyrics that had first forced us to feel something music never had before and that suddenly we weren’t so alone in our melancholic existence. The same names began cropping up, each to have been in some way responsible for the way in which we cope with the world around us today.  The most popular among us being quite obviously and quite rightly the brilliant and yet troubled artist Conor Oberst of ‘Bright Eyes,’ we each recalled years of complete entrancement, trapped in a web of awkward, honest, beautiful lyrics that first introduced us to life with substance, which I would assume, you have to expect when your musical deity is a manic depressive, burdening you with the harsh realities of love lost, death and the suffocating effect your own emotions can have on you.  We were in agreement that for better or worse as “we are nowhere and its now,’ the people that we relied on for our musical education have shaped us into the emotionally deformed adult sized people we are now, which in turn makes me think the fact we are friends no doubts lies responsible too. 

heres one for the road.