Dear L. GaGa,
Tonight my earth stops.
Tonight is the night I see you en concerto from around, hmm, 9:30 onwards.
Over the past two or so odd years since your effing explosive arrival into my life I have sworn allegiance to Gang Ga; fought for your cause; had rows in seminar lectures and committed my night life to dressing comme ta Haus. You complete me. You are the perfect blend of bittersweet musical genius, sartorial jam and humble pie (I refer to Brit Awards ac. speech here). Every viewing is sheer vis-aural orgasm. I thank you.
I find it terrifically irritating when delusionals "dislike" your music. They chastise you for being "too commericial", for "trying too hard" and being, eurgh, "so manufactured". What is highly ironic is that these arse-holes know little to nothing about your aesthetic and your humble begginigs in fickle world of music. Ga, I know you came from NY's underground scene, fought your way through the East Coast's bratty scene to be different and unique and came out as one of the most hard-working women the pop scene has had since Madonna. I thank you.
Your eternal commitment to your work is astounding; you understand what an entertainer should be and that this is your job and damn, you gon' work! Unlike other little poplet madames who strut about in Topshop, take incessant breaks from their work, marry footballers, get off on domestic abuse via the press and really at the end of it produce utter shite albums, you have shown nothing but class and grit. I thank you.
HOWEVER!
Your latest fashion accomplice though is an utter cunt. He goes by the name of Stefan and he hangs with a consort of deliciously tragic tranny messes. Delete.Him. From.Your.Life. I tell you this Ga, he goes behing your back calling you a "DragWag". I can't tell at this stage if this is a good or bad thing but gurrrrrl, in my inebriated state on a Soho street, he nasty! So, De.Lete. I thank you.
Your lovingly,
L
Friday, 26 February 2010
Tuesday, 16 February 2010
Dear Primark,
Having been forced to wend my way down your miserable end of Oxford Street today in the pouring rain and amidst the swill of half-term all in the name of Proctor and Gamble (another story entirely, for another day), I was perhaps in a bad mood anyway. My oversized black umbrella was bashing unfriendly, dazed touristy faces out of the way and my bag was 69% heavy with an average Elective grade, plus my boots were leaking something dire. All if which made for an unhappy little Lauren.
I have always hated your store. Point blank. Always.
You for me signify the end of fashion as we know it. Your neon blue Primarche sign, the harbinger of commercial doom.
My plan was fairly simple- get the XL cashmere jumper and round-neck T-shirt and go, however nothing is simple once in your indigested belly. To my right there is a girl who is pouting by the doorway awaiting her Prince Charming (obviously in the form of Storm modelling Agency or so she would have us think). To my left, there is a small pack of children, sitting about aimlessly like refugees, waiting for a flustered mother and an over-eager "teen" sister. Why are they here? Neither club, nor creche, this is meant to be a shop.
Your hapless style of store design leaves little to be desired. For a moment I am lost, but then this will come as no surprise to anyone that knows me well enough, since I am almost always lost at one point in my day, but this was mainly due to the vast throngs of idiots I am having to wade through to even reach my first escalator. Reminder: All I am after is a jumper and T-shirt. To distract me on my journey there are rows upon rows, piled high of repetitive poorly made, shoddy pieces of cotton crap. Dear Primark, you have killed the individual. And this is my main issue with you.
Some say you have eliminated sumpturory class divides, others that you are providing a means of sartorial participation in an otherwise elitist industry. But, please, (excuse my Primarche) fuck off. What you have rathermore done is destroyed the fashion industry, you have it on its knees with your under-priced, under-stitched garbs. Now for a price everyone can be a Kate Moss circa 2006, or Daisy Lowe when she was dating that Ronson, or a "goff" Alice Dellal, but where are the actual people? We have become high street homogenised. We feign personality via the likes of Topshop, but ultimately are all contrived. Come back 2005, your chavvy sentiments are all but forgiven, at least that was the last time we saw people out in their genuine wardrobes!
London I pity you.
Having been forced to wend my way down your miserable end of Oxford Street today in the pouring rain and amidst the swill of half-term all in the name of Proctor and Gamble (another story entirely, for another day), I was perhaps in a bad mood anyway. My oversized black umbrella was bashing unfriendly, dazed touristy faces out of the way and my bag was 69% heavy with an average Elective grade, plus my boots were leaking something dire. All if which made for an unhappy little Lauren.
I have always hated your store. Point blank. Always.
You for me signify the end of fashion as we know it. Your neon blue Primarche sign, the harbinger of commercial doom.
My plan was fairly simple- get the XL cashmere jumper and round-neck T-shirt and go, however nothing is simple once in your indigested belly. To my right there is a girl who is pouting by the doorway awaiting her Prince Charming (obviously in the form of Storm modelling Agency or so she would have us think). To my left, there is a small pack of children, sitting about aimlessly like refugees, waiting for a flustered mother and an over-eager "teen" sister. Why are they here? Neither club, nor creche, this is meant to be a shop.
Your hapless style of store design leaves little to be desired. For a moment I am lost, but then this will come as no surprise to anyone that knows me well enough, since I am almost always lost at one point in my day, but this was mainly due to the vast throngs of idiots I am having to wade through to even reach my first escalator. Reminder: All I am after is a jumper and T-shirt. To distract me on my journey there are rows upon rows, piled high of repetitive poorly made, shoddy pieces of cotton crap. Dear Primark, you have killed the individual. And this is my main issue with you.
Some say you have eliminated sumpturory class divides, others that you are providing a means of sartorial participation in an otherwise elitist industry. But, please, (excuse my Primarche) fuck off. What you have rathermore done is destroyed the fashion industry, you have it on its knees with your under-priced, under-stitched garbs. Now for a price everyone can be a Kate Moss circa 2006, or Daisy Lowe when she was dating that Ronson, or a "goff" Alice Dellal, but where are the actual people? We have become high street homogenised. We feign personality via the likes of Topshop, but ultimately are all contrived. Come back 2005, your chavvy sentiments are all but forgiven, at least that was the last time we saw people out in their genuine wardrobes!
London I pity you.
Yours wistfully,
L
Thursday, 11 February 2010
Dear McQueen, my First
Today you are "the talk of the studio"; "The News" we should all have heard; the shadow cast over an imminent fashion week. And above all, a shock I could never have pre-conceived before I stepped out of my Limehouse flat this morning.
Forgive my sycophancy, Lee, if you will but I speak on the part of millions when I say you were a template of success, voyeurism and style from a young age. I think it was your Fall 2006 that really grabbed my imagination, or rather flung it from floor to ceiling with such gravitas that I have rarely ever backtracked on my opinions on what constitutes good style.
Since I was old enough to read Vogue and comprehend that Kate Moss meant more than just cheekbones and Chanel was more than just a savvy brand, you have been centrifrugal to my understanding of fashion as more than just a pathetic elite. It was a means of escapism.
In many ways you gave flight to my aggressive counter arguments to all those heinous unfans who dubbed The F Word as 'unnecessary'. Fashion is one of those tertiary cultural needs, that as Jean Luc Godard once famously put, make you reach for your chequebook. I am sure those same people would blanche at the idea that bands, like Animal Collective are unecessary; or Nabokov's Lolita; or a Bizet opera. These things are all eye-opening. And what is life without a little extravagance, a hint of whimsy or a touch of surrealism (and more importantly an LBD... I jest. Ahem)?
Your reign as la roi de la mode was not without controversy; whispers from design students would have your house collapse in shame. But I shan't taint you. For now you are immortalised- a stubbly, Cockney Marylin Monroe of my generation.
RIP.
Today you are "the talk of the studio"; "The News" we should all have heard; the shadow cast over an imminent fashion week. And above all, a shock I could never have pre-conceived before I stepped out of my Limehouse flat this morning.
Forgive my sycophancy, Lee, if you will but I speak on the part of millions when I say you were a template of success, voyeurism and style from a young age. I think it was your Fall 2006 that really grabbed my imagination, or rather flung it from floor to ceiling with such gravitas that I have rarely ever backtracked on my opinions on what constitutes good style.
Since I was old enough to read Vogue and comprehend that Kate Moss meant more than just cheekbones and Chanel was more than just a savvy brand, you have been centrifrugal to my understanding of fashion as more than just a pathetic elite. It was a means of escapism.
In many ways you gave flight to my aggressive counter arguments to all those heinous unfans who dubbed The F Word as 'unnecessary'. Fashion is one of those tertiary cultural needs, that as Jean Luc Godard once famously put, make you reach for your chequebook. I am sure those same people would blanche at the idea that bands, like Animal Collective are unecessary; or Nabokov's Lolita; or a Bizet opera. These things are all eye-opening. And what is life without a little extravagance, a hint of whimsy or a touch of surrealism (and more importantly an LBD... I jest. Ahem)?
Your reign as la roi de la mode was not without controversy; whispers from design students would have your house collapse in shame. But I shan't taint you. For now you are immortalised- a stubbly, Cockney Marylin Monroe of my generation.
RIP.
Photo courtesy of style.com by Marco Madeira
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