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.

It's all in the name, innit mate?

Can I take your name, please?

             

                        

- Of course you can. You can. You take it, and then you mincemeat it into something barely legible, barely understandable, barely my name on plastic cup. YOU are the Starbucks person serving me, and I really start hating you - all of YOU!

- My name is Alice and I have a serious problem: I like Iced Coffee. I don't need the sun to drink my iced coffee, no. When it comes to iced coffee, I loose all self-esteem and all self-control. Anytime of the day, anytime of the year. I even go so far as to abandon my self-imposed ban on multi-national chains and drop into Starbucks (pah!) to get my fix. It's this serious (Sorry Brick Lane Coffee, Get Coffee, Monmouth and Climpson & Sons).

So imagine how I feel if I, in the midst of betraying myself and all other coffee-lovers, am being treated like a non-person - a nameless individual without identity!!??? I hate the fake smiles and the 'How are you today' that is being trained into the people at Starbucks, and I hate the uniforms that are supposed to democratise the lot, but in fact only widen the gap, and I hate the name badges that make everybody sooooo approachable. All about Starbucks is fake, but what really gets me going is the bloody name-taking.

Dear non-existent reader, my name is Alice. It's a British institution if you like; 9 times out of 10 when I meet new people and introduce myself, they say something like 'ahh, in WONDERLAND' or 'uhum, so your parents were into Lewis Carroll?' or even 'aha, school's out for ever'. It's almost impossible not to make the reference, and if they don't, I'll take over and do it myself 'like the one in Wonderland', to preempt all future tasteless jokes and references to cake and drink, and caterpillars, and cats, and oysters, and two fat blokes with almost identical names, and and and......

Also, dear reader, I have a very standard diction - not Laurence Olivier - but not bad either. I used to work for radio and telly, so I think I should get the talking part alright. I speak more or less the Queen's English, with a hint of an accent, but in a conversation that lasts less than a minute, nobody would notice. Even after an hour, some people are surprised to learn that I am one of the Queen's finest immigrants.

So - but here comes Starbucks. As you can see from the collection of pictures, not a single of the 'barristas' has managed to get my name (remember, it's A-L-I-C-E) right. The bloke who wrote 'ALES' gets an extra prize for asking me to spell my name. So HOW, HOW on earth is this possible?????? It's bloody, effing five letters long; it's taken from one of the most popular Edwardian children's books and there is MORE than just one of us around!!! (At the moment I'm listening to Limahl 'Neverending Story' and frankly, there you have a name to get wrong! #ChildOfThe80s)

I've been thinking about this problem for some time now, and the only logical explanation (if there is one), is that I just don't look like an Alice. I'm not a small blonde girl in a blue dress (that could also make me a Dorothy), I'm not a leather-wearing, ageing rock star - I look very much like myself, and a tiny bit like my gran (who was an Alice, too). It seems though as if Starbucks' staff doesn't recognise me as an Alice, and finds nice alternatives to re-christen me. Very often, those alternatives end up being men's names (?). Even if they ask me to spell my name (Ay - Ell - Ai - See - Ee) they get it wrong.

They must be completely oblivious to my name, if they get others right (a guy in the queue was called Timothy, and there was a Rishi, as well as a Gwendolyn) - to the extend that I fear entering one of their shops, dreading the fake smile and the 'Can I take your name?'. They can take my name; they do; and then they destroy it.

Time to clock out. Best of luck, Alysse xxx

Hach! The Dilluminati were here at night and all I got is this stupid brand mark

There are moments in life when you wake up and the tattoo you got the day before is no longer a cracking idea. And then there are moments in life when you wake up and you carry the brand mark of the Dilluminati and you don't know where you got it from. 

Today is  Yesterday was such a day.

Over night (I assume), the Dilluminati chaps must have been in to put this (picture) on my arm, very thoughtfully, next to the swallow. I sense some sense of aesthetic proportions. Then there is the latin 'expecta', the singular present imperative of expectare, to wait or to await. Nice. I like well-educated villains. Evil is so much more effective if carried out by someone with a hint of a classical education.
The sign is rather unspecific, that circle-with-triangle-with-cross-with-more-circle-thing: Dilluminati do not seem to be fans of clear messages. Why not just put 'we'll pop in around 5pm'?

On another note, I've been personally informed by the Professor that I should not focus too much on the clues, not at this point anyhow. Now, how the hell does HE know? I have my suspicion that behind this rather pretentious pseudonym hides one of the Dilluminati themselves, waiting to mislead me/us. I should really investigate into the identity of the Professor, there might be more to him (or her) than just the blog and the observations - could it be the enemy? Like in a really badly written Midsumer Murders episode, or in that Wallander episode where Rupert Graves pretends to be a philanthropist but in reality ships human organs from one place to another. WHO is this Professor? WHAT does he do? WHERE could we find him? And DOES he like Marmite?

The end is nigh, chocolate is out and the Dilluminati are coming

Rumours in the wider web of the world are circulating that the Dilluminati, Shadow Lords of the Deepest Darkest Blackest Hole, are planning an invasion. Although I am always a bit sceptical when it comes to world invasions and evil plans etc. etc., I am afraid that this might be the real deal. Partly because they have uploaded a trailer on Youtube, partly because they give us a month's notice. 

I like well organised villains: it's a lot more fun if you don't have to fight them in your knickers because you were surprised to see them on a Sunday morning. Also, they come in August - a good month for an invasion - night falls late and the temperatures are usually high, so you can stay out for a bit longer to fight Evil, whereas in December, you have tea at 4.30pm and that's that. Hooray for Summer invasions.  #sothatisallgood

Furthermore, I haven't seen the Dilluminati for a long time. Like, a very long time. Neither have I seen the Daleks, for that matter. It would be great to get all the folks together again and have some massive reunion fight-do, like in the good old times when your spaceship ran on Alkaseltzer, filmed the other way round. I admit, my current office job is not the most challenging position I have ever held, but the real compromise is my outfit: I was used to wear a long cape, a head piece, make-up, and all that, but at work they require me to wear 'decent' clothing. Mind you, apparently, horns are not decent. And they weren't that happy about my lunch box either (what's wrong with living goats????).

So, hooray for the Dilluminati, looking forward to see them again - I'll keep you posted non-existent reader.

My neighbour's head and other egg-shaped jokes

Where is the fun gone? Jokes used to be funnier, laughing was laughier (yes, autocorrect, I want to write laughier!) and situations not this tense. Tense as in, interviewing strangers to come and live with me (ok, us) and trying not to kill myself for asking about hobbies and interests - under these labels. No, no, no, no. (hitting knee on desk, howling with pain, stumping - sprained foot, howling some more) Now that I have left a rather prestigious (blah) British university behind me, life is so infinitely beige. Beiger than beige, sand-coloured at best, maybe even nude, as in Kate Middleton's nude platform heels that have been much discussed in the Daily Mail and that are even more boring, now that they have been properly exposed.

Mincemeating shoes has never been fun.

Neither has googeling cooker lights. (Yes autocorrect, googeling is a word)

So this is my spare time occupation. Sigh

Somewhere between the last couple of Tschardonnéis (as opposed to Chardonnays served elsewhere) and the mini organic baked potatoes, it went horribly wrong. Life in its beignets (I keep this, it was meant to be 'beigeness' but obviously autocorrect has other things in mind #fatwriter) has no highlights, no chocolate chips, no glazing. It's plain beige. To the extend that I am watching Alan Titchmarch on 'Elizabeth: Queen, Wife, Mohter' (ay autocorrect! you correct me everywhere else, and then leave this?????) while I am writing this to balance out the creative input. To keep me awake too, painkillers for the afore mentioned sprained foot are taking their toll. And no, NHS tyrant, I will NOT keep my foot quiet for the next 6 weeks. I. Have. A. Life. Albeit beige.

Yesterday Once upon a time that happens to be just yesterday (that is today; tomorrow of course, it will no longer be yesterday #beige #petty) I went to the British Museum (I limped from Holborn and let myself fall down the stairs to the Lecture Theatre) for a bit of culture that I'd almost forgotten about. I booked the tickets in early April, not knowing that I would fancy some Shakespearian drama in June, just sort of hoping I'd not been run over by a bus by that time. And surprise, Henry V The Hollow Crown is a rather good play adaptation with Tom Hiddleston as King Hal. The man himself was there too, for a bit of fan-bathing, as well as some other British film royalty. And there was lots of wine, which was more important than Hiddleston in a suit. Representing our local monarchy, another citizen from the land of the 'I've never met anyone from there' accompanied me to savour the fruits of my early booking. #drunkandgreedy

We both agreed that it was worth not watching ITV's Friday night program in our pjs, to go to the BM.

Today The following day, in the land of the sleeping prince from downstairs, my hunter and gatherer instincts called me to the City Centre. Nature's signs and sounds announced the quarterly shedding of the shop floor-skins with brightly coloured signs ('SALE') and the sound of a new beginning (walking past McDo I heard Peer Gynt, I kid you not). My natural instinct tells me that I need more footwear to get me through the summer into fall, as well as some overpriced carrying devices for the incredible amount of things that I .... carry around with me. Thus I ventured into a tourist-infested centre, where, upon arrival, I regretted with immediate immediacy to ever have set a foot on the pavement outside Oxford Circus Station. #cringe 

However, I had not yet seen the full extend of the situation. When I'd fought my way out of the masses (limping like a shot bambi) I spotted Tom Hiddleston, lurking around - stalking me, no doubt. Again, careful to be careful, I tried to walk past, not letting him spot that I'd spotted him. Dear inexistent reader, stalkers, so I thought, were only stalking people less famous than myself. Never, so I believed, would anybody dare following me, the highest of all higher profiles, to the effect that I made my way, hasting hastily, to the nearest Underground. I had to leave multiple pairs of foot protectors and several carrying devices on the shop floors, returning empty-handed and scared. I have decided not to leave the house again until I know with certain certainty that my stalker has left the country. I may have to put him under surveillance.

Thus I remain here, in the outskirts of E2, with nothing but my books (which, surprisingly, are very beige) and the notes in my books. #smartass

Some books are real gems when it come to the notes. 

Until life is again filled with free wine and fountains of Italian Prosecco.

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.

Starving at the cinema and the American Dream

I don't review anything - I moan. And by god, do I have to moan about this. Yesterday Friday Sometime, I went to see Hunger Games, and what a complete waste of my time and capital it was. Colossally boring, plot somewhere between Twilight and Star Wars, appeal of All the Pretty Horses. I vowed at some point earlier in my life, never to pay again for bad movies. And there was I, next to a couple who could have done with a private room, with a partial hangover, watching flawless Americans and one Australian run through a forest. Plus Donald Sutherland, who is neither British nor American, but sort of Canadian, and then again not. 

Boots, the mother of vouchering

No I don't review. Unless it's absolutely necessary. Recently, I haven't seen that much, there weren't just any free tickets - my new obsession - and I was writing essays, so culturally, it was bleak. Much like the weather at the moment, an appalling mix of rain and wind, with a little hail thrown in, and that's just lunch hour. But I return to my newest obsession that is oh so very pas chic, and oh so very unsexy. Vouchering. I had to adapt this from the American 'Couponing', which sounds a little bit like an actual activity, whereas vouchering sounds like something your 65 year-old neighbour does on a rainy Sunday afternoon. In reality (that is this weird space-time thing outside the matrix), I am searching for vouchers and freebies on a rainy Sunday afternoon, to find a different way of financing my life, once I graduate into unemployment. The very addictive source of this obsession is a television show that came only recently to my attention, Extreme Couponing, a TLC outcome, posted on Facebook by a Maple syrup-country national that you, dear inexistent reader, better not try. It is instantly addictive. Like heroin. The show follows overweight and overanxious, but underfucked Americans in their daily life as unemployed couponers, who spend up to 60 hours of their lives clipping coupons to buy 77 bottles of mustard they don't eat, or simply store in their epic larders, that are infinitely better stocked than the corner shop around the, errr, corner. Stocking up on nappies when you don't have any children, stocking up on 1000 tubes of toothpaste, when you already have about 5000 at home. Or stocking up on 67 packets of cream cheese, when any human being, no matter how much they love cream cheese, cannot eat more than one a week. At most. But they freeze well, apparently. Only they can't freeze them because there is no space in their freezers, (note the s), because they've buries a whole cow there. 12 pound of steak. 12 POUND of steak. and that is just the steak. Pizzas and other varieties of frozen food are 'a staple of the extreme couponer' because they last forever. The most appalling part of the show is that nobody seems to want to decrease their stockpile, i.e. eat all that shit, and use the toilet paper and the 1000 disposable razors. No - they all just continue buying the stuff, until their toddler has to sleep in toilet paper and kitchen towels, because there is no other space. I wonder whether this phenomenon would catch on in the UK, since the consumers here have a tendency to, hmmm, not voucher. Even the nectar cards, or their Tesco equivalent are not that popular because it takes an effort to use it, and effort is not something people like to put into their weekly shop. I include myself. I think that efficiency is key in London shopping. Rarely do I see people handing over their 4000 vouchers after a gruelling 3 hours at the till, to then break the till and make the poor Tesco guy call his manager to fix the problem. At my local supermarket, one of the cashiers is so effective that she doesn't even bother with the formalities: no look at the customer, no hi, no goodbye, no thanks - she is the epitome of the fuzz-free shopping (some people call her rude, but I see beyond that, I think she must have seen Extreme Couponing).

So how come that in the land of the triple pasteurised, filtered and plasticised cheese, people prefer to spend time cutting out stuff in the paper, than earning money with whatever skills coupon-cutting involves? Is this the American dream? Has the coupon trend replaced the dishwasher-to-millionaire story, where anybody could raise to have as much money as they'd wished to, as long as they put enough effort and dedication into it? Or is this just part of the growing addiction or obsession, at the very least, with shopping, the compulsion to substitute meaningless lives with consumer goods and the accumulation thereof? I don't really like to quote here, so I don't, but it does remind me of the theories of two grumpy, dead Germans, who wrote in a German town not too far from where I come from. And of course of various very grumpy, bald French people.
The real sadness of the program lies in the portrayal of the subjects, who are almost invariably portrayed as the heroes of the show; it is a glorification of the compulsive tendencies of these people, for the entertainment of the viewer. In an episode where little more happens that people buying groceries, real time is so minced and patched together that reel time appears as an action-packed 10-minute trip to the supermarket. However, these people spend 6 hours or more in the supermarket, and to do this, you must be desperate or very lonely. Otherwise, could or would you want to spend 6 hours pushing a trolley around in a cold supermarket, on an almost daily basis?