Take off your spanx, Fashion Week is over

I proclaim that forthwith, London Fashion Week is over. 

Finally, those brownies are brought back into the shop windows, and the streets of London are no longer littered with people who cannot walk in their shoes. I had to keep myself from offering food to passing models, who look no less starved than all these Somali children they keep showing on the telly. 

My personal highlight was a journalist's remark on Friday, who, standing next to me in Covent Garden, asked me 'So, are you one of the plus-size models?'. It took a while to seep in that he had insulted me, rather than commented on the effort I had made with my hair, or with my outfit. What. A. Wanker.

I spent the rest of Fashion Week wearing the same outfit, sporting my limp, lifeless hair out and about to make a statement. I just have to figure out what it was.

Hoozah, now that Fashion Week is over, which as every year marks the seasonal end of summer, I can progress into Autumn, and dedicate my waking hours to the consumption of sugar, and fat, and carbs. It is the Holy Trinity of nutritional crimes, but what do I care? I am proudly modelling plus-sizes, remember? 

There is however a fourth category that, every shopping, startles me anew when I am visiting my local Tesco's. Meat, the animal matter packed in plastic, is lying in its little white coffins, and in my book, this is where it is supposed to remain. Not that I am a vegetarian - I love steak, the occasional cremated bacon bit, and chicken - but I abhor buying the stuff, let alone cooking it. Meat has a weird effect, looking at me in the aisles, 12 meatballs staring with 24 greasy eyeballs into my basket, saying 'we're going to clog your arteries'. But it is not the health factor that turns me off meat - did I mention brownies? - it is not a moral choice either. It's an aesthetic choice. I may be quoting Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy here, but meat just does not fit into my bigger aesthetic picture. I shall not desert into the camp of vegetarians, because there are still aesthetically pleasing or disguised forms of meat around, available for purchase. Lucky Chip do an amazing job with their cheeseburger (meat concealed under cheese and pickle), or Gaucho and their steaks, who practise a vital simplicity with their cuts and presentation. But do not come near me with a beige pork chop, or an overcooked piece of beef. These are things I had to grow up on, that follow me like a bad, beige shoe sole nightmare.

Speaking of nightmares: an Ode to the Nightbus

Run, darling run, it's your bus

Waiting no longer than it must

Your bags weigh heavy, your feet even heavier,

Your mind the heaviest.

2am, a glory time. Outside in the cold air

Your knight in a red armour

Stopping off on Broadway where you

Find salvation in its cosy seats.

But, alas, what ho! Another passenger,

and there two more. Sitting on their comfy 

Arses, snoring, eating, snogging, ealing

Themselves in the heat of the Nightbus.

The stale air, takeaway and fart, and beer,

And old perfume, and stuffy coats, and no coats,

And the scars of the night before the morning 

After. Looks are all on you, your audience 

Welcomes you stranger with hostile eyes, but why,

Why hostility? Publicly transporting, the Nightbus

Winds itself around the corners of the Eastern Land, 

Through wafts of curry and cold fat,

The perfume of another world, to the one proclaimed,

Like a second saviour on the blind of your vessel:

Oxford Circus.

Reluctantly, a stranger is forced to free you a seat,

And you sit amongst the mingling night smells, so

Familiar, reproduced every night, in a continuing

Performance. The night. The Nightbus. Your stop.

Off.

Pantaloon de Nîmes and the beginning of the end

I am an Anarcho-Dandyist. I always secretly knew, but I had my big coming out this weekend - including some first-time experience in the proceedings of Chapism and its perks. I came second in Cucumber Sandwich Discus, which, I think, is not too shabby for somebody just coming to terms with their new existence as a Chapette. 

'For research purposes' I attended the eighth Chap Olympiad in Bedford Square Gardens this last weekend, and I put 'research purposes' in inverted commas, because I am a. a self-important idiot and b. still completely flashed (and hungover) from the experience, which is not cool for a researcher (none of the above is, really).

Here's me pre-discus-ing. Look. At. The. Hat.

However, the weekend was jolly good fun, and has again reaffirmed that my petticoat and I are made for each other, and should never, ever go separate ways again. This last point is only ideologically faisible, as my life involves quite a few non-Chapish activities, and I do not own enough dresses that allow me to wear this piece of excellent 50s tailoring. Neither does my life allow me to wear my new favourite hat times again and again, and I will have to attend events like the Olympiad to wear my 'Camilla Bowles-Parker' neo-Edwardian architectural masterpiece. 

The most delightful part of the weekend was not, as anticipated, the long list of eccentric cocktails (for reference, I drank my own body weight in 'Gentleman's Summers'), but the courtesy that I encountered, wherever I went, really. There wasn't a single rude, chavy or disrespectful Chap on-site, with the benefit of being treated like a lady for once (and maybe for the first time in my life?). How many times has a complete stranger held his own umbrella over my head, in order to keep me dry for about an hour? The answer is never, and probably, never again (thank you Stuart). How many drinks did I myself pay for on the weekend: none. How many times did somebody try to make inappropriate comments about my outfit: not once. The weekend was, despite incredible amounts of alcohol consumed on both days, the most dignified example of English non-sporting activities, and cursed those who tried to impress by being good at some of the disciplines: you have NO idea what this is all about, have you?

With reference to the title, one of two things disregarded and excluded from the event are things produced in a fabric originating in Nîmes, France, and clip-on braces. (pah!) Trainers and sportswear are equally disregarded, but can be excused, if the Chap or Chapette wearing said gear does not participate in any of the games, or has indeed managed to source original, 1920s Cricket Whites, or a similarly old equipment, justifying its use on the day. EVERYTHING else is strictly forbidden. 

With these rules/guidelines in place, the event was designed to cherish, worship, cultivate, propagate and resuscitate Tweed, three-piece suits and garters in their various forms and shapes. 'Give Three-piece a chance', as they sang on Savile Row, one dreary Monday morning in early June. The Chaps and Chapettes were ready to take on Olympic pipe-smoking, Umbrella Jousting, Cucumber Discus, and my favourite, Shouting at Foreigners, in their Sunday (or Saturday) Suit. I have never seen so many Trilby's, Fez'es, sock-garters and moustaches in one place; not to speak of the amount of tobacco consumed in the most adventurous and inadequate ways imaginable - I LOVED it. 

I suppose as a new bee in the art of dignified drinking, smoking and dressing, I did well, but in retrospect, could have done better. My preparation was thorough, but could have been more detailed, and my attire real period dress, as opposed to the amount of polyester I wrapped myself into. But the crowd did not care. It's all about the effort invested into the dressing-up and the being-there. It's not about what you are, but about what you stand for, and it is precisely this that blew me away over the two days. I did not just vaguely look like a woman with self-respect: I had some self-respect. And so had everybody else. This weekend, I did not celebrate Chapism, or Tweed only, I assisted in celebrating a culture based on respectful behaviour, towards oneself and towards others. Hoozah.

The Master of Ceremonies. Employed by the
National Army Museum no less.

My personal favourite was the MC, a guy called Tristan Langlois, and no, he did not make that name up. The aptly named Englishman led through the events with an eloquence only Evelyn Waugh could have written in the same way, and I bet that there are some serious Woodhousian influences. Looking like he'd jumped out of Gosford Park, he was the exact kind of person I expected to encounter on the day. Although lacking the standard Tweed three-piece, you do have to admire the bow-tie of perfection. How come none of the people I frequent with frequency are dressed like this? (the answer, dear non-existent reader is subject of my dissertation, and I will not lie, no one really gives a f*** about the way they dress, because they do not give much of a f*** about the way they resonate in society either. tze tze tze). 

It is very hard returning to the ordinariness of a Sunday evening, if, for two entire days, this man has commented on every single step on/off-stage. I simply must hire him to comment on my life. It's the least I can do, being short of any facial hair to groom into a statement.

Speaking of which, I have met the single most interesting moustache wearer in London, goes by the name of Mr. Wax (a pseudonym, I think). Running a business that shouts sustainability and legacy issues, Mr. Wax was one of the most interesting interviewees of the weekend, not least through his elusiveness. I had to stalk him. Not that I am not any good at stalking. He immediately recognized that conspicuous does not only mean ostentatious, but is also related to wasteful use of commodities. You’ve got to like interviewees who have some sense of Veblen’s theories. Big win. Impressive moustache. Tally ho, old Chap, I'm expected at the Club. One does have to cultivate culture.

The hipster holiday: how to spot a German blindfolded

My legs. Not hipster. Jeans intact. Brogues.

The hipster, resident of Shoreditch and Hackney is in a holiday mood. How do I know? Well, recent weather changes have initiated the common hipster to change caramel-coloured suede moccasins and royal blue trousers for a more convenient, air-cooled look of shabby plimsoles or loafers and cut-off 80s denims. Ideally to be paired with white socks or bare feet. Summer is here.

Summer must have seen the bikini-clad Southeners and the topless chavs on Oxford Street and decided that, after all, rain suits England sooo much better. I write this in my winter socks, sipping tea, with a bowl of broth next to me. It's June 5th, Happy Jubilee.

Other signs to recognise summer are of course the usual: people are accessorising themselves with Starbucks' Frappuccinos, it's always everywhere Pimm's o'clock and if you can't see the Shard, it's not the mist, it's the smoke of London's barbecues. In fact, there is something profoundly Victorian about bbqs, in that every single household in my neighbourhood is smoking the hell out of their backyards, to make the best use of rats, mice and Tesco meatballs. Now, while at Pimm's o'clock last Thursday, I must have been three times  over the legal limit, I do not really feel summer yet. Yes, I have gone through a whole bottle of Nivea's finest 50+, but that is about it. Smells are positively autumnal, the clothes very wintery and every intention to make scones and jam turns into chocolate chip cookies. Also, I have been watching Nigella's Christmas Feasts (very vintage on Youtube), The Hairy Bikers on meat, more meat and puddings, as well as Jamie Oliver's Christmas stuff. And I did not skip Mariah Carey 'All I Want for Christmas' yesterday on my iPod - I turned up the volume. And with Her Majesty Gary Barlow staging a massive charity gig, it feels very much like Christmas. Come to think of it, on December 24th, I wore a hoodie (nothing else), whereas today, I was sporting more layers than an onion. Am I complaining? You bet I am!

In Central London (I thought today would be a good day to go, because everybody was celebrating some stuff or another), there was the inevitable crowd of tourists, where my learned eye immediately separated the Germans from the rest. (Italians are quite easy to spot too) But how is it possible that spotting a German is not just easy, but evident. Living with the least German of all Germans is not what has schooled my eye in the recognition of an ethnicity that will never learn how to stealth itself abroad. Living very close to the German boarder or speaking the language is not it, either. I venture to say that what makes me alert to their Germanness is their Germanness. Could it be the moustaches? Maybe. The jeans and Esprit shirt combination? Maybe. Is it the generic haircut, sported by very nearly every German woman and girl? Maybe. Could it be demeanour? I guess there is not any one answer to this, but I suppose that it is the combination of all these factors that makes them so easy to spot. And to avoid. Am I being racist? Yes - I am after all a Middle European, and while I am not patriotic per se, I cultivate a inborn national dislike for all our neighbours. We are the best, let's face it. Which is what every other nation thinks too.

Britain - a nation in simile

You read 'smile' didn't you. Interesting psychology, but not what I'm on about.

What I'm talking about is the omnipresent and unnecessary use of 'like' in the language of Britain's youth (and recently, transgressing borders into the register of an older generation). It occurred to me on the bus back home to Chavtown-upper-Mousle that for some people, 99,9 % of what they say is 'like'.

- I feel like, like, you know, like, d'you know what I mean, like (Unknown on iPhone in Bus line 49)

No, I most certainly don't. And it would not bother me that sixteen year-old, underprivileged school leavers talk in similes that really aren't any, but considering that my seminars at uni start sounding like bus conversations - it does. I include myself when I say that my seminars consist of about 70 % similes, used to support arguments, to express personal opinion, or simply to articulate a full stop (imagine a coherent sentence with an added 'like' at the end, just to emphasize the end of the spoken - it reminds of army radio transceiver conversation - over and out). Britain, I'm afraid, has grown into a simile-abusing nation, with so little to say, that it has to flavor every sentence with an additional 'like' or two, just to fill up the unused narrative space that is lingering as a faint atmospheric mist over the island.

As I said, I do not exclude myself in the use and abuse of 'like'. In fact, writing, I am terribly self-conscious and catch myself wanting to use 'like' whenever everything else just sounds so, well, 'un-like'. But, there was a time when my use of like was strictly limited to the creation of similes and the expression of appreciation (he acts like an ass, I don't like that). However, Britain has corrupted me. The minute I set foot on this faintly damp island there was no going back, I was infected with the virus, or the like. Not using 'like', or not liking the use, is more than just a declaration of foreignness, it is the epitome of denial vis-a-vis the English language and culture - it is the ultimate betrayal of the British people, their Queen and of the head of the Church of England (which happens to be the same person). 

Retrospectively then, is the sixteen year-old school leaver with five children the future of British culture? Does Britain rely on snuffling teenagers with a limited register? Does the same no-winter-coat-wearing teenager embody British culture at its fullest? And why do I still not understand what she was saying on her overpriced phone?