I'm your prostitute

"I've been out in the Californian desert a lot, staying in this tribe. Everyone thinks that we're so ahead of the game, but we're all so basic, everything is the same really. These people have values and beliefs other than money. I just hung out and watched them. I felt like I was the wounded healer waiting to be healed. It made me want to make something more hypnotic with my music."
Lykke Li, in an interview with Dazed & Confused magazine

Sarah Gayton interview

In progress?

We will meet where the lights are/The defenders of the faith we are/Where the thunder turns around/They'll run so hard we'll tear the ground away.

Four become five. It’s an emotional and significant album for Take That. In-band squabbles and differences have been put aside to celebrate the good times, and all this has been condensed into an album that suggests they could actually have a future together as a five-piece.
Those expecting a rehash of Beautiful World or The Circus are in for a shock/treat (delete as appropriate). Gone are the middle-of-the-road ballads and in their place is a contemporary euro-pop album that consistently plays on your belief that you’ve come to know what to expect from Take That. This is 100% a very good thing. Personally, I don’t know if I could stomach a CD of lighters-in-the-air anthems, while Robbie stares lovingly at Gary and all is forgiven. Instead, what we have is an album that boldly dares to write the next chapter in Take That’s history, documented in a collection of ten perfectly-formed tracks.

SOS is like ABBA on steroids. The chorus is a whirling cry of disarray, and disorder has never sounded so catchy. Kidz, not to be confused with Williams’ solo hit of (almost!) the same name, sizzles over a thumping electro stomp whilst Mark mumbles anti-establishment sentiments of “kings and queens and presidents, ministers of government” and such, before Williams grabs the issue by the crotch and roars, “There’ll be trouble when the kids come out/There will be lots for them to talk about”, to which Mark retorts a few “hey hey heys”. It’s quite a departure from Take That’s typical soundscape and, as such, is one of the best tracks here. Consequently, Kidz is an obvious contender for follow-up single to The Flood.
Meanwhile, Pretty Things is a soothing lullaby lost in clouds of synthesizers - fronted almost entirely by Williams again – whereas Happy Now is a ray of euphoric pop that is almost as jubilant in its sentiment as Do What You Like… but then again, nothing ever is.

Howard and Jason hustle their way to the mic on Affirmation and hidden track Flowerbed respectively, both songs positioned in the rear of the track listing. Both tracks do the job however, and will hush detractors that say the vocals should be spread more evenly.
And what about Gary? Well, he is here, most obviously on The Flood and official album closer Eight Letters. Otherwise, he tends to take more of a back-step. ‘Mutiny!’, I hear you all cry. Not quite, as Barlow’s influence can be heard melodically throughout Progress, in the urgency of SOS’ furious beats per minute’s right through to the exuberant harmonies of Happy Now. The decision to step aside and allow Williams and Owen the majority of lead vocals was certainly a brave one, but one that I think pays off when you consider the addition of Stuart Price too.
This year alone, Price has played the part of producer extraordinaire for Kylie, Scissor Sisters and Brandon Flowers’ first solo LP. Here, Progress is enveloped in a layer of warmth that actually contrasts well with the vocals of Owen and Williams. Owen’s voice is an unusual one, which forces its way out in a slightly tense pitch, whilst Williams can let loose with thundering power. The verses of Kidz could not have been done by any other member than Mark, and it is Robbie’s call-to-arms vocal that crash against The Flood which make it such an epic comeback single. To this end, production and vocals are suitably matched, but it is the absence of Gary’s vocals that will cause the biggest upset with fans, rather than the shift in sound.

Some of these songs will sound huge live, and with the album cover depicting the five members in the various stages of mankind whilst lyrics speak of “divine intervention” and “preparing for apocalypse”, Take That can really go to town on the theatrics when their 2011 tour roles around. Progress is a fiery disc of molten brilliance, shot out from the centre of the earth. Well done boys.

My Guy

The air smells wet. Like, it has that faint but decidedly moist whiff to it. That soggy sense clings to you, and you're acutely aware that it's November.
Bonfire night is one of my favourite calendar events of the year. It arrives in the most understated manner, without the expectations that come with New Years Eve, or the effort that Halloween demands, and it completely blows the non-event that is Easter out of the water. Strangely, I always find there's something quite cleansing about gazing into a great mountain of fire. Catharsis, and all that. Plus there's the technicolour treat of fireworks, that climb and fizzle and whistle and crackle and finally pop.

I had the rare opportunity to enjoy a day of 'solitude shopping' in Birmingham yesterday. However anti-social it may be, I always prefer to go shopping by myself rather than with a group of friends, as you're able to focus 100% on what you need to get. After sensible deliberation (mainly brought on by the fact that, much as I hate to admit it, I am not in possession of a limitless bank balance) I settled on a thick cerulean jersey jumper from Cos, and a black and white mohair-blend scarf from French Connection.

I only realised upon returning home and perusing their website that Cos is actually the far more dapper and cooler sibling of H&M - kept that one quiet, didn't you Cos? Their aesthetic is really comforting because it's all about taking items back to basics, but then enhancing them with little bits of detail, like the denim-wash effect that my jersey jumper has, which is barely noticeable unless you look closely on the sleeves. The simple template of all their designs really appeals to me, when so many things nowadays are covered in zips and patterns and pockets. The jersey jumper merely shrugs, 'I am jumper. You wear me.' Brilliant.
I know a lot of people find mohair a distracting son of an itch, but it never seems to give me much jip. It's one of those materials that you can't truly appreciate unless you give it a bit of a closer inspection; again, it's all about the detail. The scarf is a honeycomb web of warmth, and I can't wait to wear this and the jersey jumper together on Bonfire night.


The fact that a day of blissful Brumie browsing was bolstered by one of Starbucks' seasonal gingerbread latte's was just the cherry on top; liquid magic.

YourTube

Poppa Pop is a bit of a busybody. Tomorrow's an important business day, that requires heading first class down to London. Apparantly he spent the afternoon heckling with whoever's in charge down south to move the appointment to 9am. 'Are you sure you can get down here for that time?' the voice on the other end of the line pondered out loud. 'HA!' snorted Poppa. 'Of course I can get down there for that time, there's a train that leaves here at 5:55am!' He eats early morning's for breakfast.

£170 later, first class ticket clutched in his hands as he walks through the front door, I can barely suppress a smirk when I casually inquire as to whether he'd heard about the tube strikes today...?

As he orders me to go and find the quickest route from Euston to Canary Wharf stat, I can't help but marvel at the wonder that is the tube map. Like a retro mosaic in 80s strobing, I can think of no other image which better summarises London. If you want to really experience the super city-slick living of our capital, what better way than the underground pandemonium of the tubes? Tourists might flock with their Kodaks round their necks to get snap-happy with the towering presence of Big Ben, or gallavant to the West End to enjoy a musical or two, but it is those angular and controlled contours in every dominant shade that really shape the city.

Central slices through the middle, while the Hammersmith and Metropolitan line slither by barely noticed. Complain about the stuffiness, smell of urine and bastard buskers all you want, this is the stuff that LDN is made of. Isn't it about time a map of the tube is hung in the National Museum of Art?

Carole Baker interview

Dutch spirit

Why are the Dutch so much better than us? Not only does their capital constantly stare death in the face with one quarter of it below sea level, and they have a barge completely devoted to stray cats in the form of the good ship Poezenboot, but today I discover they're light years ahead when it comes to 'care farming' too.
Julie White, of Growing Rural Enterprise, tells me: "The Dutch have been doing it for years, they're about ten years in front of us."
The mind boggles!

A text-ual analysis

James: are you ready?!
J: BUGGER ME!
Amy: a diving catch! i trashed my trifle in my excitement
J: i don't think i'm ready for the second half! shaking
J: what's with jucinta's teeth?
A: goosebumps!
J: b! eight! get in the cuba!
J: ahahaha "the cuba" :D
A: in my hysteria i deleted your last text before even reading it :P clueless!
J: concentrate stocking! you'd never survive in the cuba!
J: nicola! ;D
A: what's with all the lumberjack shirts?!
J: they're all chopping wood - tapped!
J: national lottery!
A: rollover!
A: untouchable!
A: his lankyness is his greatest asset
J: like me!
J: so tense
J: "don't let it rattle you", wise words from the fox
J: "just that final leg!" omg, that punched me in the stomach
A: you keep quoting just as i'm in the middle of typing the same quote! fwoo trace is getting tight chested
J: tell her to take a deep breath. i've had to remove my knitwear
J: the tower's laughing at him!
A: brought him to his knees, steady on schofield!
J: did you see the body was played by... the body! :D

THE CUBE

Need a leg up?

Can you feel it? That's the sound of the underground; it trembles. The balls of your feet touch the ground as it shakes, your ankles twist as your legs break. The noise isn't broadcast. It's pissing in the wind of broadcast, like a sozzled dog tied to the stilts of a beach house. Tune in, zone out, but just don't take your eye off the leash - else a stampede of Beethoven's will invade Amsterdam and not even the good ship Poezenboot can save you then.


Leggykic

You know it makes sense.

Sacrébleu!

Recently I seem to have been listening to a lot of foreign music. All tracks have been found through decidedly British avenues, such as TV programmes like Skins, but they originate from foreign lands. I think it's the fact that I don't have a bloody clue what's being said. Without a form of lyrical meaning to latch on to, the words just become yet another instrument and layer of sound that you can interpret as you see fit. Or something.
Amy Stocking quipped that Mapaputsi's Kleva was "ghetto bhangra", a combination that is sure to intrigue, whilst Royan by the wonderfully titled Francois and the Atlas Mountains is either a fragile ode to love or the hurt it can cause; again, I'm not sure it really matters which one it is.
I don't intend to Google either of them for their literal meaning - I'd rather be lost in translation.

Life + job

I'm a talking cliché. Since beginning as a features writer for Staffordshire Life, I walk around making absurd exclamations like: "We need to put the September issue to bed!", or "Let me just speak to my editor and we'll get back to you!" I find myself cringing in social situations when people ask what I do. "Teacher", "graduate scheme", "office worker", they all say, while hot, sweaty specks of embarrassment press like pins against my forehead. "Oh, I'm a writer", I quickly mumble, while I feel their eyes bore into me as if I'm some kind of fantastical figment. It's pretty good though.

Man up

Following previous contemplation on whether the mlutch is a bold and beautiful move towards offering men more choice in the bag department, or if it's actually just a bit (whisper it) effeminate and sissy, I have found a solution: the mlutch should be held in the mouth. That's it, right between the gnashers. This revelation slapped me in the chops after a few vodka and lemonades on Saturday night.


See, manly.

Popstar 101

The big buzz over Lady Gaga's new video for Alejandro has finally began to subside but, with it clocking over 17 million views on Youtube currently, debate is sure to continue on whether the promo clip is a work of art, or just hard work.

Following the success of the Telephone video, I had a new-found respect for all things Gaga. Telephone, which I posted my thoughts on at the time, was a hit because it didn't take itself too seriously, whilst at the same time taking its role as a music video very seriously indeed. The feature was ironically iconic, and served as the perfect platform for Stefani Germanotta to display the art(ist) she had created. Even the exaggerated nine and a half minutes running time did not matter, as it simply affirmed the fact that this video was a proper pop event by a proper popstar, not a run-of-the-mill club scene like carbon videos a, b and c (or should that be J, L, S? The only thing that club is alive with is the sound of far too much autotune).

Furthermore, the decision to get Steven Klein on-board should have been a masterful move. Klein is, much like Lady Gaga, a brilliant manipulator of exhibition, and working hand-in-hand they should have produced something worty of a follow-up to the Telephone clip.

For all the desire to create something that is original, unexpected, striking, and multi-layered, Lady Gaga forgot to consult the Popstar 101 Handbook (if it doesn't exist, then it should do). And rule number one: entertain. A criteria so key and essential in this line of work that to forget it is nothing short of blasphemous. You see, I admire how the video's been shot. The art direction is certainly very good. And the choreography is arguably the best we've seen from Gaga. But from watching the video I was pretty, well... bored. And it comes as a suprise, because up until this point 'boring' was never a word that could be directed at the woman.

From watching, you get the distinct impression that there is supposedly some sort of plot beneath all the moody frames, but after numerous viewings all I am able to grasp at is a collection of random images that provide no kind of cohesive narrative and no semblance of a unified message. I would never be one to say that the visuals should explicitly match-up with the lyrics of a song, and to my mind it is always a plus for a piece of cinematography to allow multiple readings, but if the impression a viewer is left with is one of mild bemusement - that awkward burrow of the brow, coupled with a raised eyebrow - then I can't help but feel Lady Gaga has fallen short of the mark in delivering this time around. It takes over eight minutes to say very little at all.

The execution of the video is as cold and stark as the warehouse in which the performance takes place. Klein's direction just comes across as a repeat of the work he has previously done with Madonna, particularly the photoshoot that was used for her 2004 Re-Invention Tour. The imagery is less of a re-invention and more of a re-hash.

Klein has attempted to justify the scenes of religion, saying: "The religious symbolism is not meant to denote anything negative, but represents the character's battle between the dark forces of this world and the spiritual salvation of the Soul."

He continues: "Thus, at the end of the film, she chooses to be a nun, and the reason her mouth and eyes disappear is because she is withdrawing her senses from the world of evil and going inwards towards prayer and contemplation."

How well this convoluted explanation directly tackles some of the issues in the clip is difficult to say. Are the dark forces in this world the throng of naked man prancing around her? Or perhaps it's the pudding-bowl haircut that she finds herself with? But just how far Gaga et Klein can defend the religious symbolism is questionable when the video includes her dressed in a nun's attire emblazoned with an upside-down cross that points to her crotch.

For the video for Telephone, I applauded the length of it. The high production values, and the fact that it was like a short feature film, meant that it injected a new lease of life into what was becoming a sterile medium. Lady Gaga has up until this point ensured that the music video is still an important component of the 'pop package', something that record labels have been pushing to one side in more recent years, as it is unlikely the return on them actually warrants the costs spent. The opposite is true here. With no sense of direction, Alejandro does not make for compulsive viewing. Rather, it is a chore to sit through, certainly in contrast with her previous offerings.

The best thing that Gaga can possibly learn from this is that producing a perfectly complete three-and-a-half minute pop video can actually be a work of art too, and that she would not be sacrificing her artistry in doing so. Sometimes Gaga, less is more.

Conservatives gain Stafford

The Labour stronghold of Stafford was overthrown last night (May 6) with a convincing win by Jeremy Lefroy securing victory for the Conservatives.

Labour candidate David Kidney had been in power since 1997, when he beat David Cameron.

Yet Mr Lefroy acknowledged Mr Kidney’s successful run over the past 13 years, saying in his acceptance speech: “I have got to earn the respect that David Kidney has earned.”

Mr Lefroy commended the amicable way in which all candidates had fought the election.

He said he was “very honoured” to have gained such a majority.

The Conservatives gained 22,047 votes, while Labour received 16,587.

Liberal Democrat candidate Barry Stamp received 8,211 votes, while UKIP’s Roy Goode polled 1,727. BNP candidate Thomas Hynd received 1,103 and the Green Party’s Mike Shone polled 564.

Turnout was up from 67% in 2005 to 71%, with 50,328 votes cast compared to 45,554 in 2005.

Mr Lefroy said: “The turnouts have been very good. I think people took a lot more interest, and I have noticed that a lot of young people have voted, which is good.”

He said he wanted to change the national perception of Stafford, following the recent controversy surrounding Stafford Hospital.



StaffsLive article

What a lovely pair

We have a tit issue.

Blue tit, to be precise.

Some brand spanking new bird houses were nailed onto a couple of trees upon our arrival at the Heath back in December. Then a few days ago Poppa Pop (who travels under various guises, such as Our Heavenly Father and David - he lives on the motorway, don't-cha-know!) spotted a pair of blue tits swirling around one of them. And before he knew it, they flew straight inside! It's spring, so you know what that means... honeymoon period. Personally, I wouldn't have plumped for the crib these boobz chose.
Our feathered friends have claimed this one...


If I was a bird on the wing, I would've settled home here...


But I guess the first is less clashing with the blue tit's blue. I must be more of a robin red breast.

The only problem is, the front doors are a bit of a squeeze. Poppa Pop is now worried that the mother blue tit is incapable of getting out. We've tried creeping around the perimeter, listening out for any clues that will reassure us that everything is A-OK ("Are they breathing...?"), and taking photos from a distance to see if that will give anything away. Poppa Pop swears he can see a "shade of blue" inside here...


No, me neither. But don't ruffle your feathers dear readers, I shall keep a close eye on this pair.

The black billowing cloud

I always tend to be wary of things when they're considered popular. There's something inside me that ticks like a bomb, albeit one that is cushioned by a hundred used mattresses, or spun in bubble wrap and then discarded at the bottom of nobody's basement; but my body still tenses at that consistent, however muffled, ticking. It's as if I think no-one and no thing can be truly popular without some form of deception or cruelty or foul-play taking place. I don't judge myself to be naturally distrustful. I believe in many things, I suppose - what about you?

Upon waking to the news of the volcanic ash that's drifting ever closer, my immediate thought was of Don DeLillo's White Noise, and the airborne toxic event that he describes.

'...we saw a remarkable and startling sight. It appeared in the sky ahead of us and to the left, prompting us to lower ourselves in our seats, bend our heads for a clearer view, exclaim to each other in half finished phrases. It was the black billowing cloud, the airborne toxic event, lighted by the clear beams of seven army helicopters. They were tracking its windborne movement, keeping it in view. In every car, heads shifted, drivers blew their horns to alert others, faces appeared in side windows, expressions set in tones of outlandish wonderment.

The enormous dark mass moved like some death ship in a Norse legend, escorted across the night by armored creatures with spiral wings. We weren't sure how to react. It was a terrible thing to see, so close, so low, packed with chlorides, benzines, phenols, hydrocarbons, or whatever the precise toxic content. But it was also spectacular, part of the grandness of a sweeping event, like the vivid scene in the switching yard or the people trudging across the snowy overpass with children, food, belongings, a tragic army of the dispossessed. Our fear was accompanied by a sense of awe that bordered on the religious. It is surely possible to be awed by the thing that threatens your life, to see it as a cosmic force, so much larger than yourself, more powerful, created by elemental and willful rhythms. This was a death made in the laboratory, defined and measurable, but we thought of it at the time in a simple and primitive way, as some seasonal perversity of the earth like a flood or tornado, something not subject to control. Our helplessness did not seem compatible with the idea of a man-made event.'

So, I guess I believe in fiction.


Banksy: 'They exist without permission. They are hated, hunted and persecuted. They live in quiet desperation amongst the filth. And yet they are capable of bringing entire civilisations to their knees. If you are dirty, insignificant and unloved then rats are the ultimate role model.'

I've always been a fan of Banksy's art, and not just the curious suspicion it evokes in modern-day principles, but the means in which Banksy as an artist operates. To work with the medium of graffiti should be problematic for an artist, what with the obvious time pressures and legal issues that abound, not to mention the notion of whether it should be deemed 'art' at all by many individuals ('People look at an oil painting and admire the use of brushstrokes to convey meaning. People look at a graffiti painting and admire the use of a drainpipe to gain access'). I'm sure Banksy doesn't call it art. And yet it is obviously the means itself with Banksy that imbues his pieces with something more pertinent. His work is raw and angry, terse but suggestive. They stand as venomous advertisements, motifs of disillusionment and quiet violence. By scrawling it across a battered tube train on the District Line, or the empty canvas of a forgotten white-washed wall in Bristol, Banksy is asking for our distrust to the same degree as all those big-buck businesses are crying out for our hand via their next advertising campaign. His role as a graffiti artist is as much about reclaiming the streets from the rodents as it is about letting them loose from the stinking sewers. Are the rats those corporate companies and politicians that run riot, or is it the ordinary man, left squatting in his own mess? Surely it can't be a coincidence that 'rat' is an anagram of 'art'?


Tonight I will be watching the first televised political debate between the three main parties. I don't know who to vote for. I've questioned whether to vote at all. Then I get angry at people who say they won't be voting because they don't know or understand enough, which basically translates as they haven't tried to know or understand enough. I get angry at people who say they won't be voting because they don't believe it will make any difference, which actually means they don't want things to be any different. Everyone is claiming that this is the most exciting election in a long time because the race is so narrow but, when you think about it, it's actually the most unexciting because people just don't care who wins. The state of things hasn't quite reached the level of an 'airborne toxic event' yet, but it's certainly more than a 'feathery plume'; I'd say it's at the stage of a 'black billowing cloud', but one that is getting progressively closer and darker.

Banksy: 'Imagine a city where graffiti wasn't illegal, a city where everybody could draw wherever they liked. Where every street was awash with a million colours and little phrases. Where standing at a bus stop was never boring. A city that felt like a party where everyone was invited, not just the estate agents and barons of big business. Imagine a city like that and stop leaning against the wall - it's wet.'

Universally challenged

Maths was never my forte. It always seemed a barrage of abstract symbols and numbers, and the only weapon I was able to arm myself with was a protractor. Who ate all the pi's? Not me. I understand how a select few might be that way inclined; how the thought of either being wrong or right is comforting. The idea of being held lovingly in the bosom of long division or a quadratic equation as a beacon of logical astuteness, the only way that could rationally and practically explain why x plus y equals... well I don't know, I said I was never very good at this. Obviously, I aligned myself with all those artsy-fartsy subjects, i.e. the ones potential employers don't really have any interest in.

There's an article in today's Daily Mail titled 'Why so many University Challenge champions fail to win in life'. Yes, I laughed too. Two quotes that have been emboldened during the course of this piece are even better. The first states, "I spend a lot of my time having to dumb myself down". The second: 'Winners tend to graduate to mediocrity'. Frankly, there's a simple equation that doesn't add up here: that intelligence should result in success.

It seems obvious enough. But is it? One contestant, John Burke, who helped the Open University to win the show in 1999, is now working as a postman. He says: "I'm certainly capable of a lot more than delivering papers. I've got a lot of other capabilities that I'm not really fulfilling." Another is Thor Halland, a participant of the winning Birkbeck Team of 2003, who 'experimented with cocaine, heroin and LSD in an attempt to 'fix' his brain'. Apparantly a sharp intellect needs 'fixing'. To be honest, I'm still transfixed by the fact that his first name is Thor. So why should intelligence equate success? The notion of being an intellect has always bugged me. People always refer to it as an intrinsically natural state, one that you're either predisposed to at birth or you're not. The fact that we now grow up having, oh I don't know, something termed 'an education' is skimmed over. And the argument that we're all either business-minded or creatively inclined...? That we're all habitually more adept with one side of our brain than the other...? No we're not. I've always said I'm proud to be a humanities student, but that doesn't mean I'm more artlessly gifted with verbs and adjectives than algebra and sums; I just decided at some point, in the grandly pointless narrative of my life, that I preferred abc to 123.

Halland goes on to say: "People like successful people, but they don't really like intelligent people. There's a little bit of jealousy." Really? Surely there has to be a marriage of the two, success and intelligence, at some point? You have to be intelligent to be a success at the end of the day, don't you? The problem occurs when people think that being academically gifted is going to reap bountiful years of indulgent success. You need to be smart across the board, in all sorts of frustratingly generalised areas - communicatively, technically, geographically, linguistically, pragmatically, etc - if you're going to stand out from the crowd. To expect that you will get ahead due to merely knowing about astrophysics is a little, well, stupid isn't it? Even Jeremy Paxman acknowledges that the kind of person University Challenge tends to attract is a particular character: "It is disturbing how many times students will confide, "It's been my lifetime ambition to get on to University Challenge." You want to scream: For heaven's sake, it's only a bloody quiz.""

If an intellectually bright individual 'fails to win in life', then surely the blame can only really be laid at the aforementioned person? So, not that bright then?

Como? Não entendi direito

Sim!

a: Você fala português?
b: Eu entendo um pouco, mas não falo.
a: De onde você é?
b: Sou de Pop-sicle.
a: De Pop-sicle?
b: Sim, de Pop-sicle.
a: O que você faz?
b: Sou pop.
a: Como? Não entendi direito.
b: Sou pop.
a: Fale mais devagar.
b: Sou... pop?
a: ...
b: ...
a: Onde é o banheiro?
b: Não sei.
a: ...
b: O senhor pode me trazer mais pão? Obrigado!





Visit The Show Pony Trot to find out how it really went.

Desperately seeking

My brother is presently trying to help me write this Pop post. The absence of recent posting has been due to a week of 'self-improvement', for lack of a better, cohesive term: internship interviews, radio shows, tearing my CV apart and building it up again. Today I'm attending a 'CV Clinic', if you can believe it. Quite whether my CV is so ill it needs to see a doctor is debatable to my mind, but we'll see. And the lack of posting is set to continue into next week, as I'm off to Portugal for 6 days (OBRIGADO!), so apologies for that too.

It was my brother's idea to write about my CV. "Write about," he says, "how we're in an academic sweatshop; we're having to be sold as a commodity. Working for 'The Man'? Who's the bloody man?!" Indeed.

The fact that everyone is so manufactured these days is a bit of a worry. 22, university degree, desire to succeed, GSOH... I feel like I'm playing the dating game, rather than at the start of a career. If this is the case, my CV is, without question, a slag. Do you realise how many times it has been whored out to prospective partners (i.e. 'The Man') in the past? To set it apart in the future, I will print it on good quality cream paper, send it out in A4 envelopes (so that it's not folded up and creased), and attach a super-smiley picture of myself, to add a more 'personal' touch. Yes, this slag is getting desperate.

And it's hard to not feel deterred at this stage of the game, which becomes even more frustrating when 'this stage of the game' is actually prior to the whole process of your career even beginning. And that word, 'career'. It's toxic. This moniker brings to mind etheral imaginings of sowing the educational bean, climbing that bewitched career ladder, and entering into the magical kingdom of Job.

Luckily, youthful optimism shines through. In my mind, and the minds of countless others, that magical kingdom still awaits. Except this fairytale is not made up of Prince Charming and the Princess, but the Tyrannical Corporate Capitalist and the Slag. But I think we all know which story will sell more copies. And they all lived happily ever after...?

Head first in love

Purchasing a CD has become, and I'm sure I speak for many, a bit of a rarity these days. The reason why was perfectly illustrated today, when I snatched myself a copy of Goldfrapp's new album Head First (Goldfrapp are of course an exception to the rule, being one of those bands where I have to own every one of their LPs). When I got home, I burnt the CD into my iTunes, so that I had the songs on my laptop. Then I connected my iPod up, so that I had the tracks on this all-important device too. And then I stored it on my family's central music system, so that all the many people who inhabit this house - a grand total of three - can listen to the album wherever they jolly well want to as well. Satisfied, I finally placed the CD on a shelf. Thank you decomposition, please take place quickly now.

And it's such a shame, don't you think? Everything is so crisp and untouched, and if Apple has anything to say it will continue to remain crisp and untouched. Everything about a CD in its physical form is a work of art. From the carefully conceived design of the packaging, to the liner notes full of lyrics and little thank you's and production credits, and then the perfectly circular disc that's held in place by those tiny plastic diamonds. Even the process of the CD spinning, and the stereo reading the music as it turns...? Spins my head right round like a record, baby.

A duo such as Goldfrapp, for all their progressive pop moves, make me pull back to listening to a CD as it was intended. This is an organic record through and through. No matter what sonic landscape they decide to create, it's still structured around soaring pop melodies and joyful harmonies - the simple things that are essential if a pop song is to be sincere. And if a pop song needs anything in abundance, it is sincerity. Head First embraces a gorgeously realised state of euphoria; 80s synths that shimmer and soft beats that fizzle with warmth. Alison Goldfrapp, if rumours are to be believed, is in love, and it shows. 'Believer' is drenched in optimism, a spritely feel-good anthem to the joys of keeping the faith; 'Alive' could be Olivia Newton-John having the best time of her life; and for those of you who enjoyed Supernature, 'Shiny And Warm' is the sloshed sister of 'Satin Chic', a splendidly dizzy romp with Allison basically getting off on the drive home to her lover. The album melts in hues of pink and blue, with a consistency in sound that I have not heard over the length of an album for a long time. And by clocking in at 39 minutes, its duration is sweetly on point.

Alison has commented that "'Head first' means to go into something without fear - head first in love. It's not trivial. I think it's more celebratory." And with this wave of deliriously dreamy sounds, what's not to celebrate?

A touch too mlutch?

It's not all that 'out there', if you think about it. Men have briefcases, satchels, man-bags in all shapes and sizes... The man clutch, or 'mlutch' if we wish to make it a bit snappier, was always in the pipeline. Nowadays, it's not simply a case of stuffing your wallet in your right-hand trouser pocket. You've got your mobile phone too (OK, OK, so that could go in the left-hand pocket...) But then what about your car keys? iPod? Epi-pen?! That last one is doomed to be just little pinhead me, but the concept of the mlutch isn't such a farcical notion if you consider it. The Father, with his stoic and unwaveringly traditional sensibilities, would no doubt tell me to "grow a pair".


3.1 Phillip Lim S/S 2010


Dolce & Gabbana S/S 2010


Salvatore Ferrangamo A/W 2010-11
All pictures are courtesy of GQ.

I think the trick is to keep it simple, sharp, straight-edged. A little like The Father. He'd be honoured. If you get it spot on, you might be lucky enough to look nearly as ice cool as Francesco Cominelli...


Slick bastard.

The forward-flying quiff

Absolutely flippin' typical. No sooner have I returned from the hairdresser's with my thick bush of a bog-brush (ahem) tamed, now sat resembling what can only be described as the "pin-head" look, than I stumble across the models from the Bottega Veneta AW10-11 show.

They are sporting gravity-defying, forward-flying quiffs! I feel like I've been stabbed in the eye! I. WANT.







All pictures are courtesy of GQ.

The clouds would catch the colours

I seem to like colours at the moment. And I very much like 'Little Fluffy Clouds' by The Orb. Yet another reason to be grateful for 6Music, Steve Lamacq played this yesterday and it's etched itself a little corner in my brain; I can't stop listening to it. It always amazes me that a song can exist for such a long time, garner its own history, and then you discover it and BAM... you're suddenly a part of it.



They were beautiful
The most beautiful skies as a matter of fact
The sunsets were purple and red
And yellow and on fire
And the clouds would catch the colours everywhere
That -- it's neat

Red

Yesterday afternoon I finally laid to rest my copy of Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar. It's a beautiful book about the state of the mind, the ways in which it pulls and pushes, and the fluidity with which this can rush. The fact that it's semi-autobiographical is simply the marrow inside the bone.

Late last night I picked up the Ted Hughes poem collection Birthday Letters, and sat poised in bed flicking backwards through the anthology and sporadically stopping on one of the 88 poems. On my part, Birthday Letters was a complete whim of a purchase from Waterstones a couple of years back. Poetry isn't like a novel or play, where there's a resolution of some kind towards the end, it's a chunk of language that can be entered from any angle and can pass straight through you. So to that end, I've always found poetry less gratifying than other strands of literature. But I think some of Hughes' pieces are really wonderful, and you get a real grasp of the weight that his relationship with Plath had upon him.

'Red' is one of my favourites. It comes last in the collection, and so there's a part of me that believes it is last for a reason and out of all the verses this should seemingly present a conclusion of some sort. It doesn't any more than any of his other poems, but, as Seamus Heaney quotes of the text, "To read Birthday Letters is to experience the psychic equivalent of 'the bends'. It takes you down to levels of pressure where the under-truths of sadness and endurance leave you gasping."


Red

Red was your colour.
If not red, then white. But red
Was what you wrapped around you.
Blood-red. Was it blood?
Was it red-ochre, for warming the dead?
Haematite to make immortal
The precious heirloom bones, the family bones.

When you had your way finally
Our room was red. A judgement chamber.
Shut casket for gems. The carpet of blood
Patterned with darkenings, congealments.
The curtains - ruby corduroy blood,
Sheer blood-falls from ceiling to floor.
The cushions the same. The same
Raw carmine along the window-seat.
A throbbing cell. Aztec altar - temple.

Only the bookshelves escaped into whiteness.

And outside the window
Poppies thin and wrinkle-frail
As the skin on blood,
Salvias, that your father named you after,
Like blood lobbing from a gash,
And roses, the heart's last gouts,
Catastrophic, arterial, doomed.

Your velvet long full skirt, a swathe of blood,
A lavish burgundy.
Your lips a dipped, deep crimson.
You revelled in red.
I felt it raw - like the crisp gauze edges
Of a stiffening wound. I could touch
The open vein in it, the crusted gleam.

Everything you painted you painted white
Then splashed it with roses, defeated it,
Leaned over it, dripping roses,
Weeping roses, and more roses,
Then sometimes, among them, a little bluebird.

Blue was better for you. Blue was wings.
Kingfisher blue silks from San Francisco
Folded your pregnancy
In crucible caresses.
Blue was your kindly spirit - not a ghoul
But electrified, a guardian, thoughtful.

In the pit of red
You hid from the bone-clinic whiteness.

But the jewel you lost was blue.

Please dial again

Something pretty exciting happens when you watch the music video for Lady Gaga's 'Telephone'. In fact, that entire sentence is so understated as to render it absolutely redundant. It's less a run-of-the-mill 'music video', and rather a 9 and a half minutes tour de force spectacular, a post-modern pastiche of what a promo clip should be. This clip is not observed; you become fully immersed in its idea of 'celebrity' - executed in such a way that its satire is anything but satirical - and the present landfill of product placement is acknowledged, trashed, spat back out, and recycled. 'Something pretty exciting happens' when you make a sandwich, doesn't it?

And that's not all. Its length hints back to a time when the release of a new video by a popstar was a big event; iconic promos such as Michael Jackson's 'Thriller', which displays artistry and ambition that is still lauded today. With our continuous crop of 'here-to...-oh-you've-already-gone' music acts, a video such as 'Telephone' stands out, with its synergy of pop artist and pop culture which can only truly occur when a thing is actually 'popular'.

Do I sound gaga? Maybe, but 'Telephone' proves that we want literal popstars, astronomically exaggerated human beings that have been shot out of the centre of the universe. I want someone wrapped in nothing but police tape whilst wearing a telephone on her head, thankyouverymuch!

Book off

I had the oddest thought today, and it simply came from the act of carrying a couple of books around. That's right: books, in my arms, being carried. It gets no more complicated than that. This seemingly redundant process of movement (WITH BOOKS!) reminded me of my BA days. Oh, I was an English student, put on this earth for one reason, and one reason only... to learn in the ways of the Literai! The crumpled pages of a beaten-up second-hand volume of Gaskell's North & South, the hard-bound spine of a text by some wonderfully arbitary author ruminating on the structures of power in a Pinter play, the piles of books discussing Wilde, and Faulkner, and Joyce, and Eliot... This excess that I lumbered around was an armour that swelled up in my chest and the layered pleats of the pages were my protection, voicing the sentiment that 'I was learning!' I was learning, and even as I moved the pressure points of my fingertips were drinking all that inky knowledge up, where it would lie dormant in my mind as tiny fractured splinters of wisdom until I needed to call on them to support an exclamation of swaggering and moving importance...

Then I realised I was walking, carrying some books.

Not who, but how

FPTP. AV. PR. EH?

It was a month ago that Gordon Brown broadcast his plans to reform the current voting system, from first past the post (FPTP) to an alternative vote (AV). The tension between the talk of reform and the impending elections has meant that I can't help but ponder, with my limited political understanding, the more simplistic facts of our voting system, rather than all its many intricacies. And what has bewildered me is why it is put in the hands of the government to decide how we vote.

In the proposed referendum, we would have the option of either FPTP or an AV. If common sense prevails, surely proportional representation (PR) is the nearest means of creating a clear democratic process in Britain? This is my opinion, and others may feel differently. What seems ridiculous is that the public don't even command the right to address what election process we vote under. Why is it not put to us as to what voting system we favour? FPTP is heavily criticised... so why do we still have it? Why should I choose between FPTP and AV if I believe proportional representation is the fairer system? Because a government who was elected into power through FPTP says so? An open choice of how we vote may even inspire more people to get involved in politics if they felt their voice counted for something. Currently, I feel it's less about who we vote for, and more to do with how.

Let them eat cake

Ellie Goulding is like a cake. From a distance you spy the ridiculous packaging, all blown-up and outrageous. Made out to be more than it actually is. Marketed as the 'Critics Choice' of cakes. Then you get a little closer, and it doesn't even look particularly appetizing. They've taken quite an ordinary victoria sponge and pumped gallons of squirty cream in there just to fill it out; to give it another layer which it doesn't even need. But you're forced to buy one because it's all the rage. Everyone you know is chomping on this cake at the moment, and you don't want to be left out. You pay for it at the checkout, pretending you're the toast of irony, when really you're just the bastard that bought the same victoria sponge as everyone else.

As you cut yourself a slice, you know it won't be as good as last year's 'Critics Choice' cake: this one's no ginger nut cake. That one may have been a bit of a fruit-loop, fed with so much brandy that even Mrs Scroggin's wouldn't know what had hit her, but at least it was truly deserving of the title. Tangy and rich, it certainly left you wanting more.

You slowly move the helping to your mouth, bite down and digest. It's stodgy, and a bit sickly, but the actual sponge isn't too bad. In fact, it's pretty good. But all this extra cream and jam...? You wipe it off, scoffing only the light, pleasant sponge.

When you see past the hyperbole in the media about Ellie Goulding, you come to realise she's not half bad. Nice enough pop melodies that include hints of pop, electro and folk. It's not groundbreaking stuff, but what she's meant to do she does well. But the marketing circus surrounding the release of her debut is a farce. I understand the reason behind a 'Critics Choice' record, but the artist has yet to prove anything worthy of such a high accolade. Under The Sheets is a good song, but if it wasn't for the Brits award would anyone be taking any notice of Goulding's bed-linen dramas? Of course, that's not to say that the recognition is not warranted, just that it's been dressed up as more than it is.

It's the equivalent of being force-fed that victoria sponge. Just a little too hard to swallow.

In stitches

North Staffordshire University Hospital's annual charity show opened at Stoke's The Rep Theatre on Wednesday. Click the link below to find out more.

http://www.staffs.ac.uk/schools/art_and_design/journalism/staffslive/wordpress/2010/02/23/university-hospital-create-a-song-and-dance-at-rep-theatre/

*Newsflash!*

Artist Andy Scott to produce two sculptures for Uttoxeter

One of the UK’s leading public artists has been commissioned to design and build two major sculptures in Uttoxeter.

Andy Scott, and his project manager Caroline Scott (no relation), had been friends for over 20 years when they replied to a call for artists to submit ideas for the Uttoxeter Regeneration project.

Around £95,000 has been secured for the completion of two sculptures to be displayed on the roundabouts at either end of Town Meadows Way.

The sculptures, which will be based on a particular theme that represents the town, have been commissioned to create a ‘point of arrival’ into the town.

Forty people applied from across the country, but Andy Scott was quickly identified as the stand-out candidate.

Paul Challacombe, Community Arts Officer for East Staffordshire, told StaffsLive: “We wanted to have a piece of art that is recognisable to people driving past, but it is the quality of the work that is most important.

“The history of work Andy has done is fantastic and his enthusiasm is really good. This project started in the summer last year, but it’s still early doors.”

But before he starts on his work Andy decided to give the residents of Uttoxeter the chance to influence the design.

A stand was set up in Uttoxeter’s market place displaying examples of Andy’s previous public art work, with questionnaires for locals to share their views.

Caroline Scott, Project Manager of ‘Andy Scott Public Art, said : “We’ve been trying to glean nuggets of information from the locals about Uttoxeter, so there is more to it than the information we could have simply found online.

“This is a process and it is developmental. People read things in very interesting ways.
“We want to create an atmosphere where the piece does not come from out of nowhere. The people who have engaged with us will feel connected to the sculpture.”

Andy and Caroline are planning to get schoolchildren and youth groups involved.

Artists will be doing workshops to help young people in the area relate to the sculptures, and Andy is planning to take a local youth group to his studio in Scotland so they can witness first hand the process of the sculpture being made.

Displays of Andy’s work are now showing at the Uttoxeter CSC, Library, Town Hall and Heritage Centre, and those who wish to express their views can download a questionnaire here: http://www.eaststaffsbc.gov.uk/


*Produced with Leanne Kirtley

http://www.staffs.ac.uk/schools/art_and_design/journalism/staffslive/wordpress/2010/02/22/artist-andy-scott-to-produce-two-sculptures-for-uttoxeter/

The £56 million question

I could write a blog entry with some semblance of a thoughtful and articulate pondering, but instead I'm simply going to throw together several self-indulgent meanderings about, well... nice thingz.

Inspired by the couple who won £56 million last weekend, and tottering around Stoke-on-Trent asking its inhabitants the same question (getting "smashed" featured quite a lot), I considered what three items I would have to immediately go out and buy if I won that amount of cash.

1. Acne leopard print desert boots

Grrrr, I'm an animal. They've been out for a while, and goodness knows why I don't picture myself looking like Bette Lynch on speed, but these Acne desert boots have some kind of strange hold over me.

2. Rodarte crewneck

Now, I realise I could probably create something akin to this just by getting a battered-up old jumper and skewering it with a fork, and for a price of just under £1,800 (gulp!), I'd probably be wiser to. Again, in my ridiculous mind, I imagine I would look like a spindle-spider, adorned in my own cobwebs...

3. Quinny by Henrik Vibskov mad print rain poncho

I'D LOOK LIKE SOME SORT OF DEMI-GOD.

And I'd still have £55,997,803 to play with!

The First Inquest

Talk about uncomfortable.

There I was - all high and mighty - envisaging myself as a journalist of the highest order, taking on the world with my ideas of justice and sound moral code. Today was the day of 'The First Inquest', that pivotal event when my shorthand practice and sharp news writing skills would culminate in a bedazzling 200-word article of beauty.

My shorthand fell to pieces. I didn't know what information to take down. I could hardly translate what I had back. I couldn't find an 'angle' for the piece. It was a mess.

But, most significantly, it felt wrong. An inquest is a public hearing to determine the cause of an unusual death, where journalists have every right of being there. So why did this 'right' feel so, so wrong? Marilyn, the subject of this particular inquest, suffered from depression and paranoid schizophrenia, had undergone electric shock treatment, a total of 3 failed marriages under her belt, an alcoholic, and victim of domestic violence.
I understand that a journalist should have the privilege of sitting in court, yet I can't help believing that this freedom should not extend to inquests. Ascertaining the cause of a death is not the same as passing judgment on a crime or incident, and following today I feel quite strongly that, unless it is on a matter of public concern, an inquest should be a private affair between those that are directly involved.

Some sons do ave em!

Me: I'm going to an inquest tomorrow.
Dad: What happened?
Me: Some woman fell down the stairs.
Mum: OMG! Is she OK?!
Me & Dad: .....

Now I know where I get it from.

Sunday, Sunday

Sunday's are so often a day of reflection for the week that's been and gone, and preparation for the week that is to come. This would explain why I often have such difficulty in understanding whether Sunday should be the first or the last day of the week on the calendar. I also wonder that if we dressed Sunday up as another day - maybe Tuesday? Or perhaps Friday? - then the usual descriptions we associate with the day would pop like bubbles. It would no longer be "grey", or "boring", or "pyjama-day" (although apparantly that's now any day of the week), but all manner of other 'doing' and 'describing' words (for the more educated among you, verbs and adjectives).

There's a lot to be excited about in 2010. Why, there's a lot to be excited about this month. In fact, even this week. Or this day. Actually, why not just click on the links below and start getting excited right about... now.

Goldfrapp - Rocket
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eF8-eIL5WZM
If I told you that the first thought that popped into my head upon hearing this was The Pointer Sisters' 'Jump', I'd worry about how many would click on that there link. So ignore what I just said. I can only diagnose this track as a serious case of the 80s, full of euphoric synth jabs, and like all great songs grows into this deliriously giddy chorus. It's more in vein with what they produced back in 2005 with their Supernature album, but there's something about 'Rocket' that is less 'try-hard'. Supernature, as much as I love it, came across as Alison and Will saying "we can do commercial just as well as ANYONE", following the success they had with 'Strict Machine'. And whilst 'Rocket' suggests the band's forthcoming LP will be more in-line with that album's sound, rather than the pastoral elegance of Seventh Tree, this time around it seems somewhat less... contrived? Nonetheless, I'm happy to witness the return of Goldfrapp.


A Single Man, directed by Tom Ford
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aypyJtHzC70
The fact that Tom Ford has directed this shouldn't be an indication of quality, but - let's face it - it's an indication of quality. I've not read the book, so the film will be brand new to me, and with a promising cast led by Colin Firth, it's bound to be pretty good isn't it? A Single Man opens with Firth's character mourning the loss of his male lover in a car accident. So... not really Avatar then? Looking set to be a whole load of melancholy, wrapped up in Ford's stunning cinematic flair, A Single Man is due to be released this Friday in the UK; just in time for Valentine's day. Althogether now, "ahhhhhhhh!"


Williams British Handmade
http://www.williams-handmade.com/
Why wax lyrical about something when you might as well just see what all the fuss is about for yourselves? Has the phrase 'thinking outside the box' ever been more appropriate? Ho ho, how many more clichés can I fit in...! Regardless, the designer Sarah Williams has inventively managed to weld together a streamlined look that is completely contemporary, with a design that harks back to those vintage values that we're all so fond of nowadays. I suddenly want to bully my farcical notion of a suitcase with its silly wheels. What does it think it is, A CAR?!

Bossy boots

Have you heard the saying that when getting dressed in the morning, you should start at the bottom and work your way up? Sounds exactly the same advice that's given about careers, doesn't it? Well, seeing as I'm tentatively testing the first rung of my 'career' ladder - a word I hate, but let's save that for another blog - it seems appropriate to spend some quality T.I.M.E on footwear.

I feel that shoes are often something of an after-thought for many people. They buy something black, that will go with everything... and then that's it.

But it's high time we all paid a little more heed to the shoe. Yep, the boot and the brogue need to get their boss back on, as what you throw on those little pinkies should dictate the rest of your life... oh wait, I mean outfit.

Irregular Choice is an example of a company that never put their feet up. Constantly creating some of the most inventive designs around, some of the stuff is a bit too unconventional even for me, but a great deal of what they have to offer is uniquely brilliant. Plus, each set of shoes has its own ridiculous nickname. So, without further ado, may I introduce you to Fabbydo and Justin-Bobby, amongst others...

http://www.irregularchoice.com/

Jokes!

Q: What luxurious beverage would you buy Alison from Starbucks?

A: A gold-frappé.

BA-DOOM-BOOM-BISH!

Right to be wrong?

I'm not a cynic. No, really! I'm not. But there's something about February 14th that just does not sit right with me. I can barely stand to look at it, let alone allow it to sit in my lap. Some see candy and flowers and birds. I tend to see so much sugar I wanna be sick, profits that, er... roll like puddings and roadkill (RIP Pidgey).

The idea of romance is vastly overrated, particularly in this day and age. Romance is just not the same, and pledging my allegiance to Valentine's day would be like sleeping with Tiger Woods: just doing something because apparantly everyone else is. Let's take a look at modern love shall we? In the past week we have had the breakdown of John Terry's marriage due to his indiscretions with a teammate's ex-girlfriend; a 19-year-old girl in New Zealand who has sold her virginity for £20,000 to pay for university tuition fees; and the Pope denouncing equal rights for gay members of the public. Not that I'm condoning the Black-Eyed Peas, but come on: where is the love?

And it's reasons like this that make real love today so important. We don't need it to be sold to us. I'm a single man, but if I was lucky enough to find someone that little bit more sparklier than the average chap, I wouldn't want it shoved down my throat in the shape of some over-priced, over-iced cookie. Love is not a business, and thus businesses need to mind their own business.

The solution? Aside from embracing spinster-hood in all its vodka-fuelled glory, I would suggest a trip to Liverpool's A Foundation on the night of the 13th or 14th. Presenting an alternative view of love, it promises to get your heart racing in other ways, through a mixture of live art performances and installation pieces. Titled 'Wrong Love', DazedDigital have interviewed Travis Street, the Texan artist who's put together this true labour of love http://www.dazeddigital.com/ArtsAndCulture/article/6449/1/Wrong_Love

I want a bite of the apple

I've fallen prey to it.

For years I've managed to resist. Of course, I've enjoyed mild flirtations, but now they have me in their grubby little paws. Having always dismissed them as a case of style over substance, an overblown 'craze' that would surely die down eventually, I now find myself in the embarassing situation of being swept up in the latest hurricane of hyperbole - and I want a piece of that windy hype.

It must have been Apple's latest gizmo, the iPad. Now, I'm not that tapped. However, the fuss about its new sprog has forced me to check-up on the first born. And I'm broody. Put simply, GIMME THAT MACBABY!

Pyjama-rama

Apparantly it's not limited to a selective few oddballs. It's not even an act that is considered embarrassing. In fact, it's supposedly becoming a national phenomenon. I'm referring to Britain's movement towards a more pyjama proud populus - specifically in the aisles of our fruits and veg. Supermarkets have had to explicity state on signs outside their doors that customers must be wearing appropriate dress and footwear, i.e. not your slips and nightgown. Some customers have remarked that those who shop in their loungewear cause them to be "embarrassed" and "offended".

I can't decide what to make of this. On the one hand, the image of myself doing the weekly shop in my pyjama top and bottoms causes my face to screw up in dread and I can't suppress the instinctive reaction to snort in derision. But I also can't help but enjoy the fact that people feel comfortable enough with what they are wearing (albeit not much) to go out in public like this. To be honest, with the recent surge in popularity of those grey trackie bottoms that every man and his dog seem to be wearing, coupled with the resilience of the fuggin' ugg boot, it's not suprising that we're taking things back to basic. Emphasis on casual comfort and... wearing what you sleep in? Perhaps this is a new market the fashion industry can tap into a little more. It's the only item of clothing that's still not produced in any manner that can really be considered 'high fashion', isn't it? Hell, if Britain is known for its multi-culturalism, perhaps it can be known for its 'multi-couturism' too...?

Walk this way

I really will go to one of these someday.

As usual in times of panic (I have my first NCTJ exam tomorrow), I decide to turn to pretty things. There's been a buzz on the net over the recent Paris and Milan fashion weeks, so I thought I'd casually cast my critical eye over what the designers were offering up this time round.

In my extremely unprofessional view, three designers stood out: Prada, Rick Owens and Hermes. Prada showed in Milan, with a collection that possessed a classic masculinity, with sharp lines and defined silhouettes, that still sneaked in some mottled knitwear in jaded bubblegum and arctic blues. The short, quite feminine cut and fit of the knitwear worked really well with the tailored trousers and suit jackets. Following Burberry's lead, the outerwear also seemed to over-exaggerate the collar, with the snow white coat being my favourite.

In the opposite direction was Rick Owens' collection. A brave cross between mythical drapes and forward-thinking shapes and lines, the designer's showing was a simple palette of blacks and whites, with some fur and snakeskin thrown in to liven things up a bit. The beastial 'coat' and smooth minimalist black jacket with the belt over the top are eye-catching but understated. It's a look that might not be to everyone's taste, but it has some kind of dream-like hold over me everytime I glance at it. And check out those gloves!

And finally, Hermes presented a look that is, in contrast to Owens, very wearable and durable. There are flashes of flamboyancy with long scarves perfectly placed and sorbet red velvet trousers, but the basics remain quite simple. However, the fact that one model manages to wear a parka jacket and still retain his credibility deserves immediate applause. The metallic mac is also a winner.

What do you think? All pictures are courtesy of GQ.